


All the Broken Pieces (Keep Cool, Stay Tough)

by Lucifuge5



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ordinary People, Angst with a Happy Ending, Community: bandombigbang, F/M, M/M, Multi, awesome fictional zombie movie, main character with a disability, surrogate partner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucifuge5/pseuds/Lucifuge5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Up until that fateful night, Frank's had a pretty decent life. But everything's changed and now he's got to figure out how to be himself again. With the help of some really groovy friends, Peppers, and his never-give-up attitude, Frank gonna get there. He's sure of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Broken Pieces (Keep Cool, Stay Tough)

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Main character sustaining a _permanent_ injury, mentions of depression, instances of self-hate from character with a disability, some medical handwaviness. This is an AU in which MCR (as a band) never existed.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Author's Notes:** I'm tremendously grateful to Akamine_chan for being as excited about this fic as I was and telling me that I had to write it or _else_. Her notes were _essential_ in getting this story to the finish line. She's simply the bestest ever. ♥ you forever, bb.
> 
> Andeincascade is golden for her encouragement and letting me talk her ear off about this fic. She held hands, gave cuddles and kept me focused when I needed it most. You're groovy, bb. :)
> 
> Hazelwho is the awesomecakiest for her medical advice and comma-wrangling. Her observations made this story ten times better. Thank you, bb, for lending me Dr. Lane. I hope that Sophie and Greg take care of him when he gets back to Canada. :P
> 
> Any remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Thank you also to Anoneknewmoose and Dancinbutterfly for their mix and art respectively. One final huzzah for the BBB mods. Y'all are too cool for school. :D!
> 
> Title is a lyrics mash-up of deadmau5's "Professional Griefers (featuring Gerard Way)" and Neon Trees' "Lessons in Love (All Day, All Night)."
> 
> Do check out [this post](http://lucifuge5.dreamwidth.org/84435.html) to see the neat art and fabulous mix for this fic. :)

* * *

The rain had come and gone by the time Frank stepped outside of the Pirate’s Den. A cool, fresh breeze swept through the streets, making him glad he’d put on a second long-sleeved t-shirt before leaving his house. He unzipped the top of his battered messenger bag and put his camera away, confident that he had taken all the photos he needed of Over My Dead Body’s performance for his latest assignment at Skeleton Crew.

There had been a moment when a group of pogoing teenagers had nearly fallen on top of him at the same time he was taking the picture he knew he could sell for top dollar. Thankfully, though, the combination of spending years in the scene and having the reflexes of a cat kept him from toppling over or (even worse) dropping his camera to the floor.

Humming the chorus for "Dark Day in Zombietown,” he kept one hand inside his bag, searching for his pack of Malboros while walking to where he’d parked his car.

The vibrations from his piece of crap cellphone (one he had for so long he used duct tape to keep it from falling apart) made him stop right on the corner. _Who the hell is calling me this late?_ He put the unlit cigarette in his mouth and squinted at the glowing screen. Though the number was one he didn't recognize, he answered. "'lo?"

"Marisa? Marisaaaaaa! It's me, baby! I’m sorry! love youuuuu!"

 _Great_ , Frank thought, rolling his eyes at the gravely-voiced dude who was half-sobbing and apparently drunk off his ass. He shook his head and took a calming breath. "Listen, pal. It's late and you sound, erm, _tired_. I’m sure you've got the wrong number."

The guy burped pretty loud. "Hey, what the fuck? Who the fuck is this? Where's Marisa? Tell me where she is!”

Frank truly knew better than to get pissy with some guy he didn't know. However, it was past one a.m. and he still had to get home and, at the very least, upload the pictures into his computer before he could even think of going to bed. He'd email them to Jamia in the morning. "Who the fuck are you? Who the fuck is she? You've got the wrong number, OK?"

He clicked _end_ and put his phone in one of his back pockets. Lighting up his cigarette, he took a drag, letting the nicotine rush help him shake off the itch to go punch something.

His phone started buzzing again when he was halfway down the second block. "God, what a fucktard!"

He picked up his phone again, glaring at the display of the same phone number from a few minutes ago and resumed his walking. "Listen, dude. Stop calling me! I don't know you, Marissa or why the hell you think that she's anywhere where I am. So go on and sleep it off. You'll feel like less of an asshole in the morning, OK?"

"What the f-fuck did you called me?" Drunk Dude answered.

"You fucking heard me," Frank replied, wishing like hell that he'd let the call go to voicemail.

"Do you know who I am? Gonna find you and fuck you up, you son of a--hic! Son of a bitch," Drunk Dude said, slurring his words.

Frank paused a few feet away from the curb. "I don’t care who you are. Go bother someone else, jackass, and fuck off!”

Ignoring the angry yelling, he was fumbling with the buttons on his cellphone when the glare from the head lights of a speeding car took him by surprise. Frozen on the spot, he could only look on as the car reached him in a matter of seconds. The car hit Frank's body hard enough for him to fly through the air like a ragdoll until he landed on his back. Though blurry, he kept his eyes on the glint of the back bumper as the car speed away into the late Belleville night.

Blinking slowly, he tried open his mouth and yell for help, but he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs. Frank groaned at the way everything swirled in his mind. Trying to sit up resulted in a blast of pain so sharp that he started to pass out.

The last thing he saw before everything faded to black was the grass on the sidewalk reflecting the pale blue glow of his cellphone screen.

*****

Frank woke up to a cold room where the silence kept getting broken by the steady beep of a machine to his left. He looked down at himself, his mind adding up all the hazy details into some kind of coherent thought: the pale blue nondescript gown he was wearing, the strange bed, the tickle in his nostrils from the oxygen tube and the faint sounds of people bustling outside. He was in a hospital. What was going on? How did he ended up here? Moving his head to his right, he saw his mother dozing off on a chair that looked mighty uncomfortable. _She looks tired_ , Frank thought as he took in the dark circles under her eyes. The last time he’d seen her so exhausted was years ago when she had divorced his dad.

He pulled the tube away from his nose, the movement tickling his nostrils until he sneezed.

His mother sat up at once. "Frankie? Baby?”

"Ma?" Frank whispered, reaching out to her. "What happened?”

"Oh, you’re awake! Thank God," his mother said, sitting up at once, her eyes filling up with tears. "You were in an accident, baby. We’re in Belleville General. Let me call the nurse, OK?" She kissed the top of his head and and buzzed for the nurse. "Everything is going to be all right, baby. You'll see."

"Accident?" Frank frowned, then cleared his throat. "I don't remember."

"Do you want some water?" his mother asked, already walking to the side table where a pitcher and an empty cup lay. She poured half a glass of water, added a bendable straw and stood next to Frank's bed. "Here, Frankie. Your throat must be parched."

He nodded to her in response, taking a few careful sips before mumbling "thanks".

A tall woman wearing scrubs walked in the room. The combination of her light blonde, close-cropped hair and her freckles made her look like the female version of Dennis the Menace. Frank chuckled at his own bad joke. This hospital gave out the best drugs ever.

"Ms. Iero, is everything OK?"

"Nurse, he's awake!"

"Hi?" Frank said still feeling a little out of sorts, stopping himself from waving at the nurse when he felt the tug of the IV line on his left hand.

"Hello, Frank," the nurse said in a friendly voice. She grabbed his wrist and checked his pulse. "I'm Karen. How are you feeling?"

"Um, woozy? My feet are cold? I don't know why I'm here?"

"You were found on Emmett Street almost five weeks ago, unconscious and, based on the wounds, the apparent victim of a hit-and-run. Any of that sounds familiar?"

"Five weeks? How--I don't. That--that can't be." Frank shook his head. He scratched his jaw, surprised at the soft beard on it. Maybe it _had_ been that long.

Karen went to the front of the bed and picked up his chart. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"I . . ." Frank closed his eyes, trying to rattle his memory instead of freaking out about blacking out entire days of his life. "I went to a show. It was . . . Over My Dead Body at The Pirate's Den on Malone Avenue. Um. I think some dude kept calling me on my phone because he thought I was with his girlfriend? I'm not sure. Eveything's a blur after that. Sorry."

"Actually, that's pretty good, Frank," Karen said after putting down his chart. "You sustained a pretty serious head injury when your body landed. You've got a tough noggin, though. The memory lapse is pretty normal and, according to the scans, your brain didn't get scrambled. Whoever called 911 did it after you'd spent a few hours on the street. So there was a complication or two when you arrived here at Belleville General, but--" Karen turned her kind, warm eyes on him. "Is something wrong?"

"Huh?" Frank said, focusing back on Karen. "I'm sorry, it's just so fuc--so weird. Why are my feet cold?"

"Disorientation is a natural response to everything your body went through," she said while gathering some of the blanket, "Now, how about we do something about making you more comfortable, hmm?"

"Thank you," Frank said, giving her a timid smile after she wrapped the material around his legs. Something was off, though. He could see her touching him, but didn't feel anything at all.

Karen looked at his feet, mouth in a flat line. However, she had a bright smile when she looked back at him. "Dr. Lane will come by in a couple of minutes to talk to you, OK?"

"Yes, that's cool," Frank replied. He yawned. "Sorry."

"Ms. Iero, can we talk outside?" Karen's voice was calm. "It's not a big deal, Frank," she said, glancing over to him, "We just need to go over some insurance info and the like. I promise you that she'll be right back."

"Okay," Frank said, leaning his head into his pillow and closing his eyes. He was only going to rest his eyes for a minute or two. "I'm not going anywhere."

******

"Hello, Frank. I'm Dr. Lane, the neurosurgeon who saw you when you first came in. " Dr. Lane was a tall and lean man with a shaved head and blue eyes that reminded Frank of icebergs. The way he stood, as if he was waiting for a signal to go kick someone's ass, made him look like a drill instructor or the world's meanest cop. It was impressive.

Dr. Lane picked up the metal chart and flipped through the notes, giving him a calm smile after he jotted down something on it. "How are you feeling today?"

"I guess the word would be "weird." They told me I was in an accident? I don't remember much."

"That's completely normal," Dr. Lane said. "You had a head injury resulting in a serious concussion. Memory gets wonky. You also went through a lot. We couldn't get you extubated after surgery; your body wasn't strong enough for us to feel comfortable turning off the ventilator. The cherry on top was the vent-associated pneumonia which kept us busy. You didn't hear it from me, but I know that several of the floor staff had a betting pool going on how soon you'd pull through. Anyway, I want to check something. Karen wrote down that your feet felt cold? Do you mind if I touch you?" he said, eyebrows shooting up.

"Go ahead."

"Thanks." Dr. Lane put the chart on the table. He took a pair of gloves from the dispenser in the room, sliding them over his hands with practiced ease. Then, he pulled the blanket away from Frank's feet and took his socks off. "I want to test your sensory responses now that you're awake. Just close your eyes and tell me where I'm touching you, OK?

"All right," Frank said, sinking back into the bed and waiting for the test to begin. Though tempted to peek, he willed himself to keep still. There was a soft sound Frank couldn't quite place. He was right about to ask Dr. Lane about whether he was punking him when he felt the sudden bite of a sharp pain right by the side of his waist. "The hell?"

"Sorry, Frank, I didn't mean to startle you, " Dr. Lane said, his touch sure as he moved his hands over Frank's torso and arms.

The confusion as to when Dr. Lane had moved was soon forgotten when Frank looked at Dr. Lane's thoughtful expression. The sense that something was really wrong about all this felt like a heavy tug in his heart.

Dr. Lane hmmed and turned around, going back to the foot of the bed. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Um, yeah. I mean, yes," Frank said, his gaze on the doctor's hands. The sense of disconnect from earlier came back.

"So, how about that? What does it feel like?"

Frank could _see_ Dr. Lane squeezing his left big toe, then touching the rest of the foot and tapping along the ankle up to Frank's knees. Truth was, he could've been handling the mattress or a baseball bat for all it mattered since Frank didn't have even the slightest sensation where Dr. Lane placed his hands.

"Anything?" Dr. Lane lifted his head, his eyes neutral.

"N-no," Frank replied as a cold weight settled in his chest. His mother squeezed his hand. "I don't--but," he said, pushing down the prickle of fear that had begun to bubble up inside of him, "what does this mean?"

"Hmm," Dr. Lane said, switching over to the other foot and repeating the movements. "Nothing?"

"No."

"Can you wiggle your toes or your feet?" Dr. Lane asked him, fixing his gaze on Frank's toes.

"Sure, no problem," Frank said, frowning when his feet remained still. He wanted someone to tell him this was all part of an elaborate prank, that this was nothing more than this wasn't what he thought it was adding up to be.

"Frankie," his mother said in a tiny voice that broke his heart. She pressed the back of his hand against her cheek. It was something she would often do to comfort him when he was a kid."Oh, baby."

Frank swallowed the lump in his throat. He wasn't going to cry. At least, not yet.

Dr. Lane hmmed again. He covered Frank's feet and took off his latex gloves, throwing them in the biohazard bin. Walking up to the other side of the room, he picked up a chair and placed it by Frank's left side. "Follow my finger," he said, extending his right index finger and moving it slowly right to left and back.

Frank did as told.

Dr. Lane leaned close. "Now stick your tongue out and say aaaaah! Good, now wave your tongue side to side, please."

"Whut?"

"Go on, do what I told you."

Though he felt really stupid, Frank waved his tongue a few times.

"All right, you can put your tongue back in your mouth," Dr. Lane said, the tone of his voice serene, which contrasted with the serious expression on his face. He sat down, facing Frank. "The first thing you have to know is that part of the trauma you sustained from the accident includes an incomplete spinal cord injury somewhere between your T-10 and T-11 levels. That's right around your waist. We ran the whole shebang: X-rays, CT and MRI scans. The results from those plus the blood work and the nerve test I've just administered indicate that you're paralyzed from the waist down. I'm sorry, son. I really, really am."

Frank heard his mother mumble something as she kissed his hand and let go of it. Try as he might, Dr. Lane's words weren't making any kind of sense. He kept his gaze on his feet and asked what he believed was the most logical question. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Dr. Lane answered after a couple of seconds. "You can get always get a second opinion, Frank. The thing is I don't think the prognosis will be any different."

It was so strange to think that he wouldn't be riding bikes or skateboarding anymore. Sliding his hands to the middle of his thighs, Frank waited for his mind to settle before he asked his next question. '"Do you think I'll walk again someday?"

Dr. Lane tilted his head side-to-side as if considering his answer. Frank was willing to give him all the time he needed to reply.

"Everybody is different," Dr. Lane said. "Anything and everything from genetic background to a person's health prior to the injury plays a factor on the probability of healing after these kind of things. Your injury was extremely severe, but we did everything we could to give your body the best chance at recovery. You've made a lot of progress already. Being off the ventilator alone is a great thing, really.

I am going to refer you to the Christie Spinal Center over at Forest Hill, which specializes in spinal cord injuries, more commonly known as SCI." Dr. Lane cleared his throat. "You can expect your body continuing to heal over the next few weeks to a month. There is always the chance that you might regain some function in your lower extremities. However, it is also possible that you won't, so you need to be ready for that. The people at the Christie Center will help you work on regaining function in addition to rehab. They're also going to teach you how to live with something like this, how to be as independent as possible even if the injuries you have right now are permanent. Anything else you want to know or talk about?"

"I need some time to think," Frank said. The split between his legs' lack of response, what Dr. Lane had told him and the undeniable proof that linked the two left him feeling slightly dizzy. In a way, it was almost as if he had stepped into his own version of the Twilight Zone. One with a shitty premise and a severe lack of Rod Serling promising that everything would turn out all right in the end.

"OK," Dr. Lane said, nodding at him, getting up and putting the chart back in front of his bed. "We are going to keep you a little bit longer--mostly for observation and monitoring of your lungs--before transferring you to the rehab center. I'll come by to see you later today, if not tomorrow morning. Maybe you'll have questions for me then, hmm?"

"Yes," Frank said looking at legs, wondering what had he done to deserve this.

The rest of his time in the hospital consisted of lots of sleeping, more bloodwork and plenty of conversations with both of his parents. If there was one thing he hated the most about being paralyzed--besides the obvious--was seeing his parents cry in front of him. He decided early on that he didn't want to see anyone else. "The only reason people want to come by," he said, his hands curled into fists at either side of his body, "is to check out the freak show. I'm not in the mood for that."

"Fine, Frankie. It's fine," his mother said, kissing him on the cheek.

*****

Monday morning, Frank met with one of the hospital's Patient Accounts specialists. He had scheduled the appointment with one Patrick Stump after talking with his mom about the hospital bill the day before.

"That's _a lot of zeroes_ ," Frank said when Patrick handed him the statement for his month and a half stay. Line after line of itemized charges left him grimacing. "Two dollars for every Aspirin I've taken? Oh my God!" He put the 10-page printout back on Patrick's desk, visions of losing his house and possibly moving in with his parents dancing before his eyes.

Patrick pushed his glasses up and opened up a file with all of Frank's financial records in it. 

Frank cracked his knuckles and waited to hear how quickly he was going to end up in the poor house.

"It's a pretty big invoice, but I'm sure we can work something out. Your insurance is going to pay part of the debt. That will knock down the total amount from six figures to five."

"Great," Frank said without much enthusiasm. $90,000 was still a scary thing to have hanging over him. He moved past that thought and began to strategize. "Options, do I have any?

"There might be some avenues we can pursue. Medicare and Medicaid, for example, are two of them. Before you get too excited, though, I have to tell you that you will still end up with a hefty balance, Frank. However, I've always believed that every problem has a solution. Let's see if we can find something for you, OK?" Patrick gave him a quick smile before he turned around and started typing on computer.

Three hours and a whole coffeepot later, Frank had signed an agreement for a payment plan that would go on for next few years. "Thank you for all of your help, Patrick," he said after pocketing a copy of the agreement for his own records. "I was on the verge of tears when you first showed me my bill."

"You wouldn't have been the first person to cry when faced with the cost of healthcare in this day and age," Patrick said. "By the way, you'll be moving to the Christie Institute, right?"

"Um, yeah," Frank said, making a face. "I'm sure I'm going to have to donate a kidney before I leave that place."

Patrick picked one of his cards and turned it over, scribbling something on the back of it. He handed it over to Frank. "When you get there, make sure to talk to Ian Crawford. He works in the Billing Department over there. Give him my card. I can't promise you much, particularly because I don't work over there. Don't think that he's going to give you, like, a huge discount. He and I go way back, though, so I hope you can get financial assistance of some sort."

"Thank you," Frank said again. He flipped the back of the card and bit his lips so as to not grow teary when he read Patrick's words: _Take care of him. He's one of us._

*****

Dr. Lane dropped by his room the day before he was going to the rehab center. "Hey, kiddo," he said, waving at Frank like they were old friends.

"Hello, Dr. Lane," Frank said, regretting that he hadn't been smart enough to pretend he was sleeping. His head was still pounding hours later after an earlier argument with his father. No way was he going to move in with either of them.

"Ask me why I'm not smiling?"

Frank cleared his throat. "Um, why?"

"Because your appetite has gone down. Not what I want to hear on the eve of your discharge from here, Frank."

Dr. Lane's words brought him back to the present. "The vegetarian food in this hospital sucks," he grumbled. It wasn't a lie. Whoever they had writing the menus didn't understand the first thing about having a _meatless_ option.

"All of the meal choices here are pretty lousy, that's true. Every time I go to the cafeteria I end up missing the Head Chef at my home hospital that much more," Dr. Lane said with a side smile. "Anyway, crappy or no, you'll start eating once you go to the Christie Center. There's no way your stomach won't be growling after 2 and 3 hours of rehab."

"Karen said it's going to be like I'm training for a marathon," Frank said.

"Something like that," Dr. Lane answered. "Well, might as well be useful while I'm hanging out here. I'm going to raise the bed a little, do you mind sitting up?"

Frank bit back the "whatever" on the tip of his tongue and did as the doctor asked.

Dr. Lane pulled out his stethoscope, plugging the earpieces in and blowing on the diaphragm. He put it on Frank's chest. "Inhale and exhale, please. Good. Again, please. Yeah, OK. Once more. And a last one," he said as he slid the diaphragm to different sides of Frank's torso and upper back. Unplugging his ears, Dr. Lane folded his stethoscope and put it in his pocket. "Everything sounds normal. How are you feeling about tomorrow? Nervous, excited, annoyed?"

Scratching the stubble on his face, Frank took a couple of seconds to respond. He could've made something up in the spot, but Dr. Lane had a way to see through the bullshit in a way that left Frank with no other option but cave-in and tell the truth.

It was a little weird.

"I don't know _what_ to feel. It's, like, this happened to someone else and I'm waiting to get back to normal. I'm also dying for a cigarette."

"There's no such thing as normal. Things are different for you, that much is true. However, that doesn't mean that you have to remain in some kind of life limbo where you end up wasting away in hopes of something that's not going to happen," Dr. Lane said, looking scary and serious at the same time. "Anyone who has badass ink like that one," he said, pointing at the Lady of Sorrows on Frank's left forearm, "is more resilient than he might think."

Frank shrugged. He couldn't even begin to think how the hell he was going to get his life back together.

*****

The Christie Spinal Center in Forest Hill ended up being a place that was both modern and comfortable. Frank's mood improved when he saw and, later on, met several of the therapists, many of whom had as much (if not more) body art than him. His parents visited on alternate days during that first week as Frank settled in his room. Eventually, however, both had to go back to their respective jobs.

A parade of therapists and other rehab personnel introduced themselves. They asked him all kinds of questions and sat down with him to discuss what was going to happen for the next three months of his life.

Tyler, his main physical therapist, was both the skinniest and weirdest guy Frank had ever met. Underneath the mismatched clothing and a fairly decent mohawk, Tyler had a mellow personality that was nevertheless tough in a way that didn't come across as pushy at all. The first time he met Frank, he had done double devil horns. "Let's rock on, dude," he said.

Frank could only nod and tried to do his part on transferring from his wheelchair to one of the large padded therapy tables in the middle of the room. Moving around using the wheelchair hadn't been as big of a shock as he'd expected it to be. A loan from the institute while he stayed at their facility, the chair was used but maneuverable.

By week's end, he already had an easy friendship with Tyler. It was hard to dislike someone who wore gold lame leggings to work and still looked semi-professional.

*****

According to his watch, Frank had all of fifteen minutes to get to Brian's office for his first session. Aside from having a quick chat with Brian when he first arrived at the center, Frank had lucked out of having any kind of sit-down conversation thanks to the vicious flu Brian had. It wasn't as if he could've weaseled out forever: psych consults were a mandatory part of rehab.

"You don't want to deal with this whole mindtrip on your own, Frank," Brian had said before he left.

Brian could've recited a multiplication table for all Frank cared. Sharing feelings--especially with a complete stranger who was only going to 'hmmm' whenever he said anything--was not something Frank looked forward to. Ever.

 _Can't get me more screwed in the head that I already am_ , he thought, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he brushed his shoulder-length hair for the millionth time.

Sure, he was stalling; he didn't need his degree in Psychology to tell him the reason why. Putting his brush down, he stared, his attention focusing on the tattoos on his neck, the slant of his shoulders against the back of the wheelchair, the mask-like expression on his face. He couldn't even figure out what he felt at seeing himself on the chair. At least, not clearly enough. "Fuck this," he said to no one, wheeling himself out into his room. _It's only talking. No biggie._

Most of his bravado fizzled out by the time he was inside Brian's office. A short man with some impressive tattoos, 'therapist' wasn't the first thing Frank thought when he saw Brian. Musician or biker dude, maybe, but not someone whose job was to counsel people who were broken inside and outside.

"Morning," he said as he pulled his chair's brake downwards and crossed his hands over on his lap.

"Hey," Brian answered, giving Frank the kind of stare that said 'bring it on' loud and clear. "Was wondering if you were going to show up or wuss out."

"At least I'm not the one who can't fight off a cold," Frank said defiantly. "You want me? You've got me. Let's get started with this so that you can give me great opinions about, you know, _whatever_."

"We're here to talk about anything that's on your mind, Frank," Brian said, the tone of his voice even though not overtly friendly. "Be that how you feel about your injury, your goals, things that you want to work on. Or, we can spend the next," he checked his watch, "49 minutes staring at each other like two bulls ready to battle one another. Your choice."

Frank squinted back. Deep down, fighting was the last thing thing he wanted. Especially not with Brian--who looked like he would definitely punch _back_. He blurted out the first thing that popped up in his mind. "I've been here before," he said, waving his hands. "Went to a therapist back when my parents got divorced. So, trust me, I know how this whole game goes: I talk about my feelings, you throw a bunch of questions at me trying to get me to talk more and, in the end, nothing changes. Sometimes we'll talk about my dreams and what I think they mean."

"That's one way of looking at it," Brian said. "Another way is to realize that letting whatever it is you're repressing out into the open will help other aspects of your life. Work, relationships, your future. These are all things that every human being thinks about because they are elements that make up our world. Or are you 'playing it cool' because you're afraid of facing and ultimately accepting your new circumstances?

Somewhere inside of Frank, a spark of anger appeared. He held onto it, irritated by Brian's words, and got ready to lock horns with him. "It's not my 'new circumstance'," Frank said, making quotation marks with his fingers, "it's my _reality_. There isn't much to like or not like. It simply is."

"You're telling me you're OK with being paralyzed? That you're above fearing being rejected? That you don't need some screws in your head tightened up? 'cause I mean, if that's the case, then I call bullshit."

Frank opened his mouth a few times, ready to snap back. He steadied his breathing because he wasn't going to talk about that, not about other people seeing him as 'less than', not now and not to some 'therapist' who couldn't even point him in the right direction. He closed his eyes and tilted his head, fully intending to shake it side to side, as the urge to punch someone, anyone, grew stronger.

"It's so fucking easy for you, isn't it, _Brian_ ," he said, anger coiled around his heart.

"What's that, Frank?" Brian answered with ease. "What do you think it's easy for me?"

"You talk to people like me for eight hours. At the end of the day, you turn off your computer, get up from behind your desk and _walk_ out of here. Simple life for a simple man, huh?"

"That's not--"

Frank cut him off. He had to get this out, he had to bite back. "So now I ask you, who the fuck do you think _you_ are to come and tell me about what is and isn't bullshit? Fuck!"

Brian's voice was very far and yet crystal clear. "Frank?"

The only sounds for the next few beats were Frank's hard inhales and exhales. He had to take control of this thing, of himself. It wasn't until he opened his eyes that he realized he was grabbing his thighs hard enough for his fingers to turn white. He let go and wiggled his fingers, half-wondering where he'd gone to just now.

"Tell me what's on your mind," Brian said.

"'s not fair," Frank mumbled, relieved that Brian had sidestepped his outburst. The weight of everything he had pushed down for weeks after waking up in the hospital lessening a bit.

"No, it isn't. I know. However, sometimes, accepting that can set you free," Brian said, suddenly in front of him, offering a cigarette. "I can always recognize a fellow smoker. Save it for later, OK?"

"Thanks," Frank said and put the cigarette behind his right ear. Now he understood why the sessions were mandatory. No way would he have chosen to do this kind of mental boxing match.

"You're welcome," Brian replied once he was back on his chair. "Your progress notes are quite, er, satisfactory."

Still feeling unsettled, Frank tapped on his thighs. Something was up. "Oh yeah? Do they mention how often I bitch at the physios when I go to their sessions? 'cause I can get very creative with my curse words."

Brian didn't rise to the bait (or chose to ignore it.) "There are a couple of times when there were some rough spots, but nothing so significant as to derail the rehabilitation. But you're not socializing much with the rest of the patients. Why is that?"

"Dunno," Frank said. "Half the time I'm too tired and the other half I just want to find a corner and read a book or two. 's nothing. Against anyone else, I mean."

"OK," Brian said. He put his hand on the chin and gave him a cool look. "If you keep to yourself then you don't have anyone to compare your situation with and realize that you're one of them, am I right? Then you don't have to search inside yourself and figure out what you're going to do with your life now that there's been so much change. You're 'safe' as long as you admit nothing, hmm?"

"What? No, I just--I'm just here to do my thing. I'm trying to do my best. Talking or not talking with other people isn't going to improve my sense of self-worth or whatever the fuck you're shooting at, Brian. There is nothing I have to change because everything _has_ changed without any input from me." His head was beginning to hurt.

"Time's up," Brian said calmly. "Before you go, though, I want you to think about this: the sooner you recognize what it means to be paralyzed--that is, from an emotional perspective--the faster you'll be able to see that there's a lot to look forward to in life."

Frank snorted. "Yeah, well, who says I want a sunny future?" he said with bitterness. Brian gave him a puzzled look.

"Whatever," Frank said, stretching his arms forward before getting ready to leave, "I have to go hang out with my physio. See you later."

*****

"So, I’m thinking we could work on your triceps and biceps today. You know, get them to grow from tiny cap pistols into something a lot more lethal? Well, after we do some passive range of motion exercises?" Tyler said when Frank got to the rehab gym.

"OK," Frank replied, rolling his eyes at Tyler's cheerfulness while trying to ignore the explosion of colors in front of him. This morning, Tyler was wearing a bright pink, leopard print long-sleeved t-shirt underneath his purple scrub top and a pair of dark green pants. He looked absolutely ridiculous. Frank pushed back his bangs, choosing to stop trying to decipher Tyler's style, and made a face. "Why can't we skip the bendy parts and just sit down and have a coffee?"

Tyler shook his head. "Come on, Frank, you need to work with me here. The world can be a tough place--"

"Yeah, especially when your eye line is at the same level as people's butts."

"Hey, maybe that's your thing. Who's to say it's not?" Tyler said, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Anyway, as I was saying, the world can be tough, but you can be _tougher_. That's why I push you to do all those evil reps. The fact that you have a good range of motion within your shoulder muscles means that we have the opportunity to bulk you up. Make you as strong as we possibly can." 

"Not that it's going to make me any more dateable," Frank said morosely. "Like people don't see the chair first and shit."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't mean you have to rest on your laurels," Tyler said as he pulled Frank's leg up and down. "You've got to fine-tune this body, especially your arms."

"Great," Frank said without much enthusiasm.

"I'm gonna straddle your leg now, OK?"

"Okay," Frank said, studying the agile way Tyler hopped on the table and sat on his left leg. Even now, almost two months after his accident, he knew he'd never get accustomed to the lack of pressure on his lower extremities.

"Have you talked to your therapist?"

Frank bent his head down while wondering if he'd missed part of the conversation. "About?"

"I know you're young and, yeah, this sucks," Tyler said as he moved to the other leg and started working the muscles. "But feeling like you're, I dunno, as desirable as, I don't know, an Orc is something you could move past."

 _Oh, that_. Frank rested his head back on the table and did a slow exhale. This was not going to be pretty. "Brian says that I have problems reconciling my injury with the reality that I'm a paraplegic. I don't know what the hell he wants me to say. It sucks, OK? Fuck my weakass legs and the wheelchair and that I can never ever go into a mosh pit and let loose because, fuck, _I can't walk_. I'm just--my fuckability score is at minus a million and will remain so 'til I die. Excuse me for being pissed at the fact that my sex life ceased to exist when I turned 28 years old. Reality's a bitch and that's that."

"I see. Why?"

"Why what?" Frank wiped his eyes. The fuck was he crying for? It didn't change anything.

"Why do you think you can't have a sex life?" Tyler gave him a confused look. For the first time since he had been transferred to the Christie Institute, Frank wanted nothing more than to punch the hell out of him.

"Jesus fucking Christ! Do I need to, like, fucking spell it out?" Hot anger running throughout his body, Frank glared back at Tyler's stupid face. He pressed his lips together, exhaling as he tried to push Tyler off of him, inwardly glad that they were the only ones in the gym at this hour. "I can't--I can't." He closed his eyes, not caring about how much they felt like they were burning. "Getting hard-ons is something that doesn’t mean anything to me anymore. I mean, sure I can see my woody but what's the point of getting hard when there’s _no_ sensation down there anymore? Being stuck on a stupid wheelchair doesn't earn me any points either! I'm a grade-A crippled freak."

Tyler rolled off him, then sat next to him and put around an arm across Frank's shoulders, pulling him close. "It's OK, Frank. It's OK."

Frank sniffled against Tyler's purple scrub top. "I'm so fucking pissed off..."

"You think Brian can help you?"

"He--I don't know. He thinks I have to accept this and move on but, like, not give up either? My sessions with him are like a fucked up version of an afterschool special." Frank pulled away, grabbing his Misfits t-shirt and drying his eyes out.

Tyler sighed. "Maybe he does have a point. You're not the only person, the only dude, this has happened to. There are 250,000 people with SCIs in this country and over 80% of them are men. The majority are in their early 30s."

"This isn't the part where you tell me that I should be grateful to be alive, right? Please tell me I'm not about to get the "Tyler Glenn Hallmark moment." "

"I'm only trying to get you some perspective. What I said before, about you not being the only T-10 para in the whole world? That's true. Some things suck and others become, well, interesting. You can flip the bird, tell everyone to go to hell, but it doesn't change anything. It doesn't change you."

"It already has." Frank shrugged, suddenly feeling exhausted after going off like that. "Hey, I'm--I'm sorry, man. Didn't mean to bitch you out and shit."

"We all work stuff out in different ways," Tyler said. "You know how you make it up to me? By doing two more reps before we call it a day."

"I swear one of these days I'm going to kick your ass, Ty," Frank said, his eyes following Tyler as he grabbed his leg and continued doing the stretches.

"Oh, yeah?" Tyler replied. "You and what army?"

*****

The matter of picking up a good wheelchair became a priority once Frank learned he had to have one before he could get discharged from the Institute. He had been measured for one back in that first week during his stay. Back then, he hadn't paid much attention to Dallon's questions. Part of that was him being nervous about the newness of the situation and being uncomfortable with deciding how important a backrest would be. Now that he knew what spending his time sitting on a wheelchair was like, his confidence about picking the right one for him was solid.

He met with Brendon, the wheelchair consultant, on Thursday.

A short and lean man who wore sleek, black rimmed glasses that reminded Frank of Buddy Holly, Brendon was a little twitchy, a lot of cute and seemingly unflustered by Frank's surly behavior. Given the choice, Frank wanted nothing more than to head back to his room, crawl into bed and listen to some Dropkick Murphys until dinnertime. Today’s therapy session with Brian had left him strung out. However, he'd already postponed meeting with Brendon once.

Frank would’ve walked out if he could’ve. The beginnings of a giggle bubbled up inside of him.

"Something funny?" Brendon asked.

"What? Oh, no," Frank replied as he scratched the back of his head. "Let's get this show on the road.”

"So you're looking for a wheelchair you'll be using in your daily life, right?" Brendon asked as he typed into his tablet.

"Yes, I'm planning on driving so I'm thinking a chair that's light but can take some heavy usage," Frank answered. He let his eyes roam all over Brendon's body, enjoying his nerdy cuteness while, at the same time, trying not to worry about coming off like a creeper. Just then, Brendon pulled up the sleeves of his sweater, revealing a very impressive tattoo of a piano keyboard on his left forearm. A twinge of longing for getting inked sprung inside Frank. "That's pretty awesome," he said, pointing at Brendon's arm.

"Oh?" Brendon stopped typing and put down his tablet. "Ah, right. I had musical aspirations. Wanted to be in a band when I was in high school. But, well, life got complicated."

Frank's interest peaked. Music was a generally safe topic. "Yeah? You play any instruments?"

"I play guitar, bass, piano, drums, accordion, organ, cello, violin and the trumpet."

"Wow, you're, like, a one-man orchestra," Frank said, seriously impressed.

"My family didn't believe children should watch TV. I was bored? Anyway, Ry always says I can only play a little bit of this and a little bit of that." Brendon pushed up his glasses.

"Ry?"

Brendon tilted his head. "Ah, erm. My . . . boyfriend?"

Of course. Boyfriend. No way would someone like Brendon be single. 

"What about you?" Brendon smiled.

"What about me?"

"You play any instruments?"

Frank made a so-so gesture. "I'm pretty handy with the guitar. Was in a band. Band broke up. Now I'm a freelance writer for a few online magazines, do a little photography on the side. It's a living."

"That's very cool and I'd love to sit down and chat with you about it. The thing is, we have a lot of things to go through. I'm going to re-measure you. Let me know if you feel overwhelmed or need a break. I am here to help you pick the most perfect chair in the world. How about we say the musical portion of this conversation is over, so that I can show you a few models that I think you'll like?" Brendon took a huge breath and pushed his glasses up.

"Wow, you're OK there, fella?" It'd been a while since he'd met someone who could jam that many words into a conversation.

Brendon gave him a side smile which made him look like he should still be in high school. "Sorry, I can get a little excited about this. Not to put pressure or sound like I'm bragging, but I've been told I have a knack for pairing up people with the right chair."

"Not going to lie, dude, I'm feeling a little nervous here. It kinda feels like I'm buying a house."

"Lucky for you, this going to be easier than that," Brendon said as he winked and flipped his tablet so that it was facing Frank. "Now, this is the TiLite ZRA Series 2. I think you and it will be a great pair..."

Two hours had passed by the time Brendon and he finished filling out the necessary forms for Frank's new set of wheels. Its $3,000.00 price tag was another hit to his bank account. The only thing left to pick was the color.

"So, what are my choices?" Frank stretched his arms upwards. The stiffness from sitting down for so long and kind of hunching over was a bitch on his back muscles.

"Basic stuff like brushed steel, black, blue and red all the way to green or blue camo."

Frank would never be able to explain what prompted him. All he'd remember about that moment would be looking down and seeing the tail of his belt. "How about pink?"

"Pink?" Brendon made a so-so gesture. "You sure?"

The more Frank thought about it, the surer he got. "Yup. Can I get a pink chair?"

Brendon quirked an eyebrow at him before selecting that color. He typed for a few more seconds. "Ok, done. Your wheels will arrive by next Wednesday. You mind telling me why pink? I mean, it's cool. Unusual, but cool. Just..."

"Don't really know," Frank answered. "Or, well, I kinda do. Like, people will be staring at me because "oh my God, wheelchair!", right?"

Brendon nodded. "Sadly, some people will always be rude."

"So, why not give them a _real_ reason to check me out then? Besides, what's the worst that can happen? That I get made fun of? Big fucking deal." Frank grinned openly, feeling a little bit like his old self for the first time since waking up in a hospital bed.

*****

The next day started with a call from one of the detectives assigned to his case. Frank had hoped, for one whole second, that Detective Anderson had called him to tell him they had arrested someone.

"We've been unable to find the driver of the vehicle involved in your accident, Mr. Iero," Detective Anderson said. "Our investigation, such as it is, has reached a dead end. The information we collected from canvassing the neighborhood is not enough to build any solid leads. For example, the make or model of vehicle that hit you remains a mystery."

Frank closed his eyes, trying to rein in the twin waves of anger and disappointment that begun to rise up inside of him. He waited for a couple of seconds before he spoke again. "So, what you're telling me, _detective_ , is that somewhere out there is a son of a bitch who's cruising through life, having a fantastic time, after putting me in a wheelchair? I mean, I should just, you know, suck it up and be cool. 'Too bad, so sad' and all that bullshit, right? Screw the crappy investigation. Who cares, hmm?"

"Mr. Iero," Detective Anderson said, his tone clipped, "I can only imagine how upset you are. At this point, the case will remain open. We will contact you if there are any further dev--"

"You suck!" Frank said before hanging up the phone. He had had it with the police and their ridiculous questions, being told that there were no witnesses and that he just had to deal with the fact that his attacker would forever remain some faceless person. He cracked his knuckles a couple of times while doing some quick inhales and exhales. Soon as he stepped out of his room, he was due at Brian's office and the very last thing he wanted to talk about was Detective Anderson's call.

He didn't know why he was surprised that it only took Brian less than ten minutes to detour the conversation into why Frank looked jumpy this morning. After all this time, it was something that Frank should've been expecting.

"Jumpy? Nah, I'm just rarin' to go and kick someone's ass." He started giggling at how ridiculous that sounded. "Kick someone's ass. What a riot!"

"I enjoy gallow's humor. Tell me, though, what's so funny?"

Frank quieted down and studied his hands, zeroing in on his knuckle tattoos. "I know that horrible things happen to good people and that the bad apples sometimes escape justice. Things aren't black and white, there's always hope and everyone lives happily ever after yadda, yadda, yadda."

"But?"

"But all the 'I'm sorry's' and eating all my veggies and keeping a smile on my face even when I want to tell the world to fuck off won't get me walking again. None of that is going to fix me. How am I supposed to accept that? I mean, even if I were to, I dunno, magically find the motherfucker who ran me over, I can't even punch them in the face like they deserve."

"Still, Frank, that's not the only choice out there, is it?"

"Really? 'cause I can't think of anything else."

"Forgiveness, moving on, acceptance. All of them are equally as valid, don't you think?"

"Forgiven--I'm sorry," Frank said as he scratched his head, "but, are you _high_? There's no reason why I should ever be OK with being here." He knocked on the chair's armrests. "Moving on? Like, 'oh, no big deal.' I'm just going to be the crippled freak that people will give side looks to for the rest of his life. Fuck that! I didn't sign up for this!"

"And yet, here you are," Brian said, giving him a calm look. "Lashing out at the world like you're some kind of matinee monster isn't going to solve anything. Be angry, you've got every right to want to pound your fist on the driver's face--though, as your therapist, I'm also advising you that you shouldn't. Just, don't let that anger consume you because if you do that, you will also end up closing yourself off from having the kind of future that any good person deserves. Besides, grumpiness doesn't suit you."

"Oh, and being paralyzed does?" Frank looked at his hands, all of his earlier fire all but fizzled out. His whole body ached the way it did when he spend an entire concert non-stop moshing.

"It's not the whole story. Just a part of it, the way being into tattoos or a good-natured person tells the world who you are, Frank. I think it's time to explore what _does_ define you."

*****

"So I hear you'll be leaving us soon," Tyler said later in the day as he started to place electrodes on Frank's legs.

"Can't fucking wait," Frank said. He glared at Tyler as he stuck the last one on his left leg. "I swear you've got some kind of master plan to tenderize me like I was a piece of roast beef."

"Yeah, well, I know you can take it, Iero," Tyler said with mock seriousness. "Now that you're heading home, I'm absolutely convinced that you're going to slack off on the exercise."

"'s not like I won't be coming here twice a week."

Tyler shook his head. "Uh-huh. I also know you can be a lazy ass if I'm not there to poke and prod you. You've got any plans?"

"I've got some work stuff to do. I mean, my bank account is a little scary nowadays." Frank grimaced. Even with his parents' help, between hospital and rehab bills--not to mention the adaptations he had to do to his home--most of his savings were gone.

"And then, there's also dating?"

"Dude, Tyler, what _is_ your deal with my lack of a love life? Did we or didn't we have this conversation not so long ago when I cried my manly tears after raging at you for talking about this?"

Anyone else would've taken the hint. Unluckily for Frank, Tyler wasn't anyone. "I believe in the power of L-O-V-E, little Frank."

"Even for someone who's damaged like me?" He waved his hand over his legs. "Not much to offer here."

Tyler turned on the electrical bike and programmed an hour and a half course. He then shot Frank a strange look. "Huh, maybe..."

Frank shrugged and waited for the biking to begin. It was always a surprise when he saw his legs moving up and down. Occasionally, he would stare at them, waiting for the feeling of the muscles contracting as he pedaled at a steady pace. Other times, witnessing the movement like it was happening to someone else frustrated him. Those days, he preferred to focus on the screen or the scenery outside the window. 

Tyler's silence, however, distracted him from his usual routine. "Fine, fine. I give in. Maybe what, dude? Spit it out!"

"Um, you can tell me to shut up or tell me it's my own business or whatever, OK?"

"Okay," Frank said, squinting because Tyler acting nervous was something he had never seen happening. "So, what's on your mind?"

"Has Brian. Erm, has Brian mentioned surrogates?"

Sometimes--not often, thank God--talking to Tyler was a ridiculous experience. "What?"

"You know, like a sex surrogate?"

It took a lot of willpower for Frank not to fall out of the bike. "What the hell are you talking about, Ty?"

"There are people who study human sexuality and emotions. They work together with a therapist in order to help anyone who has any kind of sex problems. It's not a new thing or weird one," Tyler hastened to add.

Frank thought Tyler was wasting his time working as a PT. He should've been doing infomercials instead. He squinted at him. "What?"

Tyler waved a hand, clearly warming up to his suggestion. "It's just one more way to deal with, you know, dysfunctions and what not."

Frank grabbed the handlebars since it looked like, in addition to make him work his leg muscles, Tyler's secondary plan for Frank was to freak him out. He gave Tyler a look. "And you know this because?"

"One of my friends is a surrogate. His name is Ray Toro and he's an old college roomie. We've kept in touch. I think he could help you."

"Tyler, this has to be by far the most bizarre thing you've ever said to me. It's cool. I'm cool, thank you. I don't think I need whatever kind of 'help' your friend is offering, OK?"

"Eh, 't was worth a shot." Tyler gave him a side smile and left him alone for the rest of his ride.

That night, when Frank lay in bed, his mind kept whirling around his conversation with Tyler. He couldn't say he wasn't tempted to see if anyone could help him have sex. But then, what kind of sex could he have with anyone? Particularly with someone who wasn't broken like himself? He couldn't even jerk off --well, he could rub his dick 'til it got raw, but he couldn't come (though he dreamed about it often).

He turned his head and stared at the wall as he counted off the reasons why Tyler's suggestion had been a bad one. Any friend of Tyler's was bound to be a total oddball. Frank's life was already too complicated to take Tyler's suggestion seriously. There was no way he could have sex if he couldn't feel his dick. No one would want to touch someone who had "dead legs". After a while, he closed his eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep.

*****

The next day, Frank knocked on the door to Brian's office as soon as he was done with his breakfast.

"Come in," Brian answered.

"Morning," Frank said while pushing himself into the office, closing the door after he made it through.

"Oh, you're a little early today. Makes one wonder why the sudden punctuality," Brian said after checking his watch. He was smiling, a rare occurrence for the usually serious therapist. "Something you want to talk about? We can start our session now if you'd like."

Frank nodded. "I've been thinking 'bout something. Kinda wanted to, um, see what you thought about it?" His face felt hot. There was no point in even pretending that he wasn't embarrassed on every level about bringing this up. Silly as it sounded, he didn't want Brian to laugh at him for throwing a crazy idea out there.

On the other hand, as the one who helped Frank get his mind in tune with his new situation, Brian was one of the few people in the world who was well aware of Frank's anxieties about all things sexual.

"You can, um, tell me if I'm oversharing or whatever, OK?" All he wanted at that moment was to pull the hood of his sweater up and pretend he was a turtle. This wasn't the first time he would talk about sex in his sessions with Brian, but that didn't mean he wasn't nervous.

"All right," Brian said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Shoot."

"I was talking to, erm, someone yesterday about sex and what I can and cannot do about it. This person said that there was something called a "surrogate"? That this surrogate-person could be a solution to my bedroom drama?"

Brian rubbed his hand over his chin; the scratch-scratch sound was somewhat loud in the quiet of his office. "There are certain individuals whose primary job is to assist people who have sexual problems. I don't remember where I read it, but right now there are less than 100 surrogate partners in the U.S."

"Wow, really? I'd think that--well that kind of work, you know, I'd think people would be lining up to do it."

"The surrogate has to have a certain type of personality: adaptable and open-minded while being aware of boundaries since he or she will be working on a really intimate setting with individuals or couples. Takes a lot of schooling and, believe it or not, accreditation to break into the field. Plus, they can only work with a client if said client is referred to them by a therapist."

"Like you," Frank said absentmindedly.

"In this case, yeah." Brian tilted his head. "Other than the obvious, you're bringing this up because you're looking for my approval? Do you think you need it?"

Frank took a moment to answer that. "No, it's just something that has been rolling around in my brain. At first, I thought it was, you know, crazy. But I can see the sense on hiring someone to help me, I dunno, reconnect with not-so-little-Frank."

"Is that because your time here is almost over? Getting reintegrated into the 'real world' is a big step, Frank. It's fairly normal to have anxieties about everything from going outside to pick up your mail to dating."

"So you're saying that I'm slightly freaking out over nothing and that this surrogate thing is a bad idea."

"No, I do think your worries are valid. Having sex or, at least, wanting to have it is part of the biological response. By the way, not wanting it would be normal too. From where I'm sitting, it looks like your mind is made up though."

"This surrogate person would help then."

"If you're open to the experience. Hard-ons or no, your inability to feel _yourself_ even though your body responds is definitely something you will have to work on if you're thinking of being intimate with someone."

"So you'll refer me then?"

Brian nodded. "Would you like me to see who I can find or do you have anyone in mind? I've got some colleagues in NYC who I could--"

Frank cracked his knuckles. "Ray? Erm, I know about someone. His name is Ray Toro?"

"Oh, that's right. I don't know why I didn't think of him!" Brian said, his whole body practically buzzing with excitement. "He's a very laid back guy, very intuitive and empathic. I will contact him, give him your info. A lot of it depends on his schedule. You're going to be going home very soon, so let's wait until after you've begun outpatient therapy?" He flipped through his organizer. "Based on how things are for Mr. Toro, how about a month for now?"

Frank dropped his shoulders. "That long?"

Brian held up a hand. "Going back home is going to be a big thing, Frank. Trust me on that. This type of transition can be very rough on anyone. I want to give you time to settle back into your new routine before we start this particular kind of work. Deal?"

"Deal," Frank said, a small tendril of hope uncurling somewhere in his mind.

*****

He left Brian's office, enjoying the calm for a few minutes as he wheeled himself to the Driver Rehabilitation Department. Getting his license reinstated meant taking a class of Driver's Ed followed by the actual test with the DMV and that was that. "Hello?" he said, knocking on the door when he got to the office.

A burly guy opened the door and motioned for Frank to come in. He sat back on a stool. "Hello. My name is Bob Bryar. I'm gonna teach you how to get back on the road."

Frank rolled in, took the hand that the fearsome-looking blond dude extended towards him and shook it. "I'm Frank, former speed demon. You are aware that I _do_ know how to drive, right? I mean, my ability to turn a signal on is pretty intact." He wiggled the fingers of his free hand.

Bob gave him a stern look, then shook his head. "Driving an adapted car is a little bit of a mind-trip. But before we even get you behind the wheel and start peeling rubber on the parking lot, you have to learn how to get in and out of it."

"OK," Frank said as casual as he could. Bob was already imposing enough with his all-black clothing and lip ring. He didn't need to know that Frank was nervous as hell. "I mean, I'm pretty sure I can figure that out."

"In theory, maybe." Bob got up and picked up a set of keys. "Let's go to the practical lab. By the way, how close to your chair is this loaner? I mean, in matters of specs and stuff."

Frank did a quick mental comparison between the chair he had decided on and the one he was currently using. "I think this one is a little heavier? Oh, and the backrest on the chair I'm getting is about 5 inches lower."

"Good," Bob said. "It's going to be super-easy once your chair arrives then. You ready?"

Frank rolled his eyes as he followed Bob out of the office. "Piece of cake."

By the time he had hopped onto the practice car, a low-key 2007 Mazda two-door, disassembled his loaner chair, put it on the back seat, took it out again, reassembled it and got back on it, Frank thought his arms were going to fall out of their sockets. His discomfort must have shown on his face.

Bob shot him an apologetic look. "Sorry, didn't mean to have you overdo it."

"Don't worry 'bout it, man," Frank said as he massaged his neck. "I've got a competitive streak that's a mile wide. Someone shows me a challenge and I just have to, like, stare it down and push myself. Earned me a lot of bloody noses back in junior high and high school. I'm more than cool with calling it a day though."

"It's fine, dude. Actually, I'm dying to get my nicotine fix." Bob opened the driver's seat door and sat down, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

"I've got a lighter if you have anything that isn't menthol," Frank said, eager at the idea of having a pre-dinner cigarette.

"Here," Bob said after opening his pack of Malboros. He picked up the lighter after Frank lit up the offered cigarette. "I get the menthol dislike. I won't smoke that unless it's, like, the Apocalypse or, for whatever reason, every non-menthol cigarette disappears from Planet Earth."

Frank closed his eyes and nodded, exhaling smoke away from Bob's face. "I think I'd have to be a zombie to smoke a menthol, dude."

Bob smirked. "I've walked through a snowstorm 'cause I ran out of smokes. Sick, man. Sick."

"Bitches are expensive too," Frank said in between puffs.

Bob nodded as he smoked in silence.

At that moment, Frank couldn't be more grateful that Bob wasn't trying to dig deeper into his mind or helping him have sex or teaching him to cook and clean now that he was on a wheelchair. He glanced over at Bob. The rays of the late afternoon sun made it look like his hair was made of fire. Bob the Viking Driver's Ed instructor. He snorted, almost choking with smoke.

"What's so funny?" Bob said, raising an eyebrow.

"Thinking about Vikings, that's all," Frank said before he flicked the still burning cigarette butt into a neat arc.

"And that's a sign that you ought to be heading back inside," Bob said, throwing his cigarette on the floor and smashing it with his boot.

*****

Frank woke up the next morning to a dull ache in the muscles of his upper back. He was going to kill Bob next time he saw him.

"Morning, sunshine," Gabe, the day nurse in his unit, said in a way that was both exceedingly cheerful and a little sleazy at the same time. "Oh, darn, I thought I'd get to catch a glimpse of your twig and berries."

"I going to need industrial-strength coffee if you're going to try to come on to me before I'm fully awake," Frank said, long accustomed to Gabe's random innuendoes. Happily married to Vicky, one of the case managers, Gabe was an equal-opportunity flirt.

"Oh, that's too bad. I think Quinn and the rest of the OT team beat you to the last available cup, sweetheart." Gabe checked Frank's vitals then brought Frank's chair to the right side of the bed. "How about we get you all prettied up and then we can see about getting you some java, hmm?"

Shaking his head, Frank mumbled a sleepy "OK" as he moved to his wheelchair all the while wondering what parallel universe he'd stumbled upon to have ended up with a bunch of weirdos for nurses and physios.

He'd been in the middle of digging into a tasty veggie omelet when he saw Tyler heading to his table, his expression serious for the first time Frank could remember. Mouth full of egg, Frank nodded before swallowing. "Hey, Tyler. Um, dunno if I'm up to having bonding time with the free weights--"

Tyler pursed his lips. His hair was extra violet this morning. Taking a seat across from Frank, he looked like a character from a sci-fi movie. "I get that you really want to get better and be as independent as you were prior to your accident. From what Bob told me this morning, you're a good student."

"OK?"

"But he should've known better than to get in "drill instructor" mode and work you out til your muscles burned beyond what I'd think normal."

"Oh, that," Frank said, hiding his grimace behind his cup of coffee. "I have an appointment at the DMV a week and a half from now. Just wanted to be ready."

"You're like the weirdest overachiever I've ever worked with," Tyler said, tapping his fingers against the table. "I had thought of working your triceps, but the last thing I want to do is cause you more pain. How about we take a dip in the pool?"

Frank put down his cup and gave him a bright look. "What time? I have my daily OT with Greta and then a session with Brian."

Tyler sucked his teeth. "Meet me at the pool around 1, then."

"Awesome," Frank said, the excitement of spending time in the pool too great for him to hide it.

*****

Tyler placed Frank on the small platform that lowered into the pool. "Safety first," he said when Frank suggested jumping into the pool from his wheelchair. Adjusting his bright green swimming cap ("I didn't spend some precious to me time almost burning my scalp by bleaching then dying my hair just so the chlorine could ruin everything"), Tyler tsked, stepping into the pool. He stayed a couple of feet away from Frank. "Come on, Iero. Show me what you're made of."

Frank smirked before pushing himself away from the submerged platform, enjoying the way his body floated as he doggy-paddled towards Tyler. "We should do pool exercises every day," he said, inwardly delighted at how easy it was to move around. That his legs and feet remained still was the only thing that made him aware of where he was and why.

"I only have so many swimming trunks," Tyler said as he waded over to Frank. "You want to float for a few minutes before we start the session? I mean, just because we're here doesn't mean that I'm going to make it easy for you."

"Yeah, I know, Ty," Frank said. Tyler's hands were on his waist, his touch too faint and intermittent for Frank to be fully aware of it.

"OK, little Frank, I'm gonna set you up and then it's on you to keep yourself from sinking. Ready?"

"I was born ready, sucka," Frank answered, keeping his arm movements steady until he was coasting by. All sound became muted by the rush of the water around his head. Here, floating on warm water, Frank slid into the calm vibe easing its way through him. Here, he wasn't a paraplegic or someone whose damage would be considered to be too great for people beyond the walls of the Christie Institute. Frank moved his body until he was back to being vertical once the early mellowness started to become something like a pity party. He dunked his head, tapping back into the serenity of moving gently in the warm pool before turning to Tyler. "All right, _compadre_ , let's get this started."

Afterwards, Frank wheeled himself to the locker room, body and mind exhausted by the aquatic exercises Tyler had him do for a solid hour and a half. Tonight, he'd sleep like a baby.

*****

Two days later, Brian gave him Toro's email address.

Back in his room, Frank stared at the sticky note on his hands, wondering how something so small was freaking him out. Maybe this was a stupid idea, a waste of money or even worse something that wouldn't help at all. He bit his thumb, psyching himself up into contacting the surrogate and ignoring that little voice that promised Frank he'd only be disappointed. He had a cigarette on the balcony, the air turning cool now that fall was approaching. It would be so easy to not do anything. He'd already spent months working on strengthening his muscles as well as relearning how to do anything and everything from taking a shower to how to do parallel parking. 

Other than talking with Brian (and, to a certain extent, Tyler), there wasn't much Frank could do on his own when it came to sex. He could always spend the rest of his life regretting ever having crossed paths with this Ray Toro, sex guru extraordinaire, but the possibility of something good coming out of it was far too tempting for Frank to ignore it. Decision made, Frank crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and wheeled himself out of his room. He went to the center's library, grateful that he had a few hours before it'd close while trying not to look as suspicious as he felt when he logged into his email and began typing.

 

**To: RayToro@surrogatepartners.com** From: Fiero@driftcloud.com RE: Surrogacy? 

_Hello, Ray:_

_My name is Frank Iero. I'm a person with an incomplete T-10 spinal cord injury who is interested in your services. At the moment, I'm at the Christie Institute in Forest Hill, but I will be going home in less than two weeks. My therapist over here is Brian Schecter (who is the one who referred you to me), but I first heard about you through Tyler Glenn, one of my physios._

_Anyway, Brian and I have discussed using sex surrogacy as a way to work through sex problems that were caused by the SCI. I don't know if Brian has already contacted you or what your schedule is like, but I wanted to introduce myself._

_It'd be cool if we could talk about this. Over the phone or in person, whatever you're more comfortable with. I mean, having a consultation with you is not the same as hiring you, right? I have, as you can imagine, many questions. Plus I want to discuss fees and the like upfront._

_Here's my cellphone: (862)555-5555 in case you'd like to talk. It's usually charged. Let me know what works for you or if you're even interested in this, OK?_

_Sincerely, Frank._

He left the tab open, hoping to hear from Ray soon, then headed over to the Punk is Dead site. Several of his favorite bands--including the Architects--had released new stuff. He'd been dying to give it a listen.

Halfway through the review for Stiff Mercy's EP, he noticed that he had gotten a few emails in his inbox. Amid the spam (like he really cared "how big could his schlong be") and a couple of updates from Brendon about his wheelchair being delayed by two days, there was a reply from Ray. Frank opened it at once.

**To: Fiero@driftcloud.com From: RayToro@surrogatepartners.com**

**RE: surrogacy**

_Hi, Frank_

_Let me begin by say that I'm not looking for a new client right now. However, the fact that it was Tyler who mentioned me to you has me feeling very curious. It's been a few years since I last saw him, but he's someone whose heart is big and wise._

_I'm sure that if you asked him, he'd tell you that he was the simple conduit between you and I. What I mean is that, pending on all the important stuff about you (medical history, talking with Mr. Schecter about your therapy, etc.) I'm interested in seeing how can I help you reconcile your sexual self with your body._

_In some ways, your email is almost like kismet because I'm going to spend the rest of this year in New Jersey. I'm aiming to be back home by mid-September. So, any time after that is fine with me._

_My fees are fairly reasonable--especially to someone who is a friend of a good friend. ;) I'm confident we can find mutual ground that will be agreeable for both of us._

_I will call you a few days before to discuss the where and when of our first meeting._

_Looking forward to meeting you, Frank._

_Ray._

Frank sent a short "Cool. I can't wait to meet you too" reply and logged off. He smiled, the rush of getting a positive response leaving him full of hope about someone he had yet to meet.

*****

It didn't matter how many cups of coffee he had had during breakfast and after his OT, Frank was nowhere near ready to deal with Brendon's super-excited attitude on the day his wheelchair arrived. In some ways, Brendon reminded him of a puppy.

Brendon stopped him when he was two feet away from his office. "Oh, I don't know whether to bring you in here," he said, eyes huge and shiny like a cartoon as he jerked his thumb towards his office, "or to bring it out!" He darted back into his office and then back out into the hallway.

"Dude, dude!" Frank said, putting a hand out. "You're gonna make me dizzy if you keep bouncing all over the place like that. Let me go inside and then I can, like, test it out?"

"All right!" Brendon replied, his smile growing big with each passing second.

Frank followed Brendon, eager to see his wheelchair. According to Brendon, this wheelchair should last the full 5 years without wonking out no matter how hard Frank used it. At best, it was going to be a practical and comfortable way to move around when he'd be back out in the world. At worst, he'd be stuck with a wheelchair that had cost him a nice chunk of change and that he couldn't get rid of for half a decade.

So, the last thing he'd expect was to stare at her (because his wheelchair was a lady through and through, much like his beloved guitar Pansy), open-mouthed and in awe. He got closer to her, to Bela, stretching his hand out (ignoring the slight tremble) until his fingers could slide on the cool metal. The pink was eye-catching in the exact way he'd wanted it to be.

"Oh, it's great, right?" Brendon said.

"Yeah," Frank said softly, setting the brake on his loaner chair. It's not as if he felt that it was destiny or some kind of heavy moment when he sat on his new set of wheels. Bela suited him, the cushion and the low backrest were very comfortable. "Mind if I take her out for a spin?" he said after wheeling back and front for a few seconds.

"Dude, this is yours. Go crazy!", Brendon said. He walked up to the door and opened it wide. "This has got to be one of the best matches I've ever done."

Frank waited until he had gone down the hallway and through the lobby to test Bela's maneuverability. She wouldn't bring back his legs, but she was the sweetest, next best thing to them.

*****

"That's your new chair?" Bob asked Frank during their last session together.

"Nice, yeah?" Frank said as he spun a quick 360.

"It suits you," Bob said, throwing his cigarette to the floor and grinding his foot on it. "All right, obviously, you're a pretty good driver. I haven't seen you run over any of the cones in the last two sessions. But I want to see you flex your driving muscles one last time before your exam."

"Cool," Frank said as he tapped his fingers on Bela's armrests. "I gotta tell you, though, I'm know I'm gonna ace the test. I'm meant to be on the road, cranking a Ramones album while cruising for a bruisin'."

"Yeah, yeah, you cocky bastard."

"Hey, by the way, I don't want to get, you know, sappy and shit," Frank said, scratching the underside of his jaw. "But I want to thank you for giving me the heads up on your mechanic dude. My mom called me to tell me that the adaptations to my car are pretty solid."

"Cool. I had a feeling Skiba and his boys could help you," Bob said in his usual nonchalant way. "We're gonna be using this car, though, for the test, deal?"

"Sure, no worries."

"OK," Bob said, taking his keys out of his pocket and throwing them at Frank. "Time to see you pretend you're going to be a lawful driver."

Frank flipped his middle finger and hopped onto the front seat.

*****

One week later, Frank held his new driver's license in his hands, staring at the huge smile he had in the photo. Having this was almost like getting back a piece of himself from Before.

He'd been in the middle of packing up his stuff (man, where did all these things come from? He'd only come in with two medium-sized bags and a backpack. Now it felt like everything down to his socks had doubled--if not tripled--in amount.) when Gabe came by his room to give him a large manila envelope. Even after passing the test and taking the photo, Frank had an irrational fear that the New Jersey DMV would suddenly determine he was a shitty driver. He sighed with total relief when his license fell onto his lap after he opened the envelope. Someone at the DMV had included the application for the "handicapped placard and/or plate". The hairs on the back of his neck stood up when he read the word "handicapped". That was exactly how other people would think of him as soon as they saw him. 

Maybe he was just trying not to lose it about finally going home after three long months at the Christie Institute. On the one hand, he couldn't wait to see his home and his bed and check out the home adaptations that Tyler had suggested doing. Besides, he'd be meeting with Ray soon enough and that was very exciting. On the other hand, he couldn't help worrying about what the people outside would say and do when they saw him wheeling to and fro all over Belleville. Going out on pass from the Christie Institute was something that Frank always shot down no matter how insistent his parents and Brian were about him experiencing the world beyond the walls of the institute.

As much as he felt like he would flip the bird at anyone who looked at him as "less than" for using a wheelchair, he didn't want to be stared at. It was an uncomfortable thing that made him feel cagey whenever Brian brought up the idea of the Outside.

He smiled when Tyler, Brendon, Gabe and the rest of the staff said their 'see you soons' the day his father showed up to pick him up. He said the same thing to everyone: "Pfft, you pretend you're going to miss me, but I know that as soon as my paralyzed behind is not even ten seconds past the front doors, you are gonna bust out some primo booze and have a party."

"Nah, man," Gabe said while shaking his body to non-existent music. "The party is going to be at _mi casa_ this Saturday. It's going to be this group of wackos and my hometown crew. You, of course, are the guest of honor so no flaking out. If you try to sell me," Gabe said point at himself then the rest of the staff "or all of these losers out, we're gonna take the party to your place."

"Word," Greta and Tyler said in unison.

"No worries," Frank said, hoping that he didn't look as frightened as he felt at Gabe's zany threat. "You had at me 'party,' really."

Once everyone else left, Gabe crouched next to Frank. He looked left, then right before leaning over. "Hey, word on the street is that there are going to be some available hotties at the party too." He tilted his head back, winking as he nodded. "All right, man, remember to respect the cobra," he said before making his hands into claw-like things.

Frank waved at him, wondering whose idea it was to have a party for him. It'd been a long time since he had had any alcohol (at least a few weeks before the accident). Part of him knew that it'd be awesome to let a little steam out. He took out his iPod and flicked through the playlists until Against Me!'s music started to blare from his earbuds. His dad wouldn't be along for another half hour or so.

*****

The ride to his house was a quiet one. His father had never been the talkative type. Usually, it annoyed the hell out of Frank. This time around, he used the time to stare at the world zooming by, hoping and wondering that things wouldn't feel as off-kilter as he feared they would.

"Well, here we are. Home sweet home," his father said, putting his van on park. "You need some help with that?" he asked when Frank reached out for Bela.

"Um, I don't think so?" Frank said as he finished locking in the left wheel and started on the right one. "I practiced lots," he sighed, the pang of missing everyone back at the Christie Institute going through him for a moment. "Is mom here?"

Just then, his mother appeared as if summoned. "Oh, Frankie. You made it OK!"

"It's a twenty minute drive, Linda," his father said while taking out the bags and putting them next to Bela.

"Oh, you know what I mean, don't you, Frankie?"

Frank lifted his head and took in the image of his mother looking nervous. "I do, Ma. I do." Hopping onto Bela ("Oh, baby, be careful!" his mother said), he didn't wait a second before he started to head to the ramp by the front of the house. He might've heard one of his neighbors saying hello to his parents, but as much as he didn't want to be rude, the last thing in his mind was to talk to curious people about the accident he didn't remembered or seeing pity in their eyes that he was now 'stuck' with Bela.

They could all suck his left nut.

He pushed himself up (inwardly thanking Tyler for all those extra reps he made him do whenever it was time to work on his arm muscles) the ramp and through the door.

In some way, everything looked the same. Thankful that he had bought a one-floor house (instead of the two-floor condo his realtor had tried to set him up with), he glided through the house. There were little touches--such as how all the rugs had been taken out--that made him aware of how things would be. It wasn't until he got to his bathroom (now sans bathtub and with a shower chair instead) that it really hit him. All the changes, his new 'situation'.

His mother came in at that moment, talking about how she'd brought him some lasagna and that maybe he could have a welcome home party. When she found him, Frank as holding a photo of him when he was 13 years old. In it, he was running towards the camera, knees bruised, huge smile on his face. He didn't remember when this photo had been taken or by whom. His focus zoomed in on his legs.

"We can put those away if they're upsetting to you," his mother said softly.

"Huh?" Frank said, sniffling a little. He hadn't even heard her walking into his bedroom. "No, it's OK, mom. It's not healthy," he said, touching his forehead, "to hide from the past. To pretend that I could never stand and, you know, walk around. I haven't forgotten."

His mother sat on the edge of his bed. She placed a hand on his shoulders, tucking a strand of his shoulder-length hair behind his ear. "I wish you hadn't gotten hurt."

Frank sighed. "Believe me. That makes two of us. I'm not going to say that I'm OK with this or that it wouldn't be awesome if tomorrow I could, like, jump out of my bed and shi--and whatnot. But, like, at the same time I can't spend the rest of my life looking back at the way things used to be."

"And that's what makes you my son," his mother said, her hand sliding down and rubbing a small circle in between Frank's shoulder blades.

*****

Both his mom and his dad offered to spend the night. Frank waved them off. He had started living on his own as soon as he'd come back from college. The last thing he needed was to be babied by his parents. His father gave him a soft punch on his shoulder, telling his mother that he was going to go outside and warm up the car. For her part, his mother gave him a loud kiss on his cheek, made him promise to call her as soon as he woke up and kept reminding him that the leftovers would keep for a couple of days.

Frank rolled around the living room, turning off the lights and then heading to his bedroom. He picked up his iPod, selecting _Monk in France_ and placing it on its speaker dock. The soft trumpet and easy rhythm filled up the room, helping Frank relax. He unbuttoned his jeans, pulling one side down, swaying until they pooled at his ankles. Holding the hem of both legs, he pulled the pants up and off, throwing them into the empty laundry bin. He left his t-shirt on--eventually he'd get cold--and boxers when he headed to the bathroom.

Some minutes later, teeth brushed and everything else taken care of, he was back in his bedroom. "I'm Getting Sentimental Over You" had started playing when Frank put the brakes on Bela and slid onto his bed. He closed his eyes, letting the day wash over him. Blinking slowly, he wondered what new torture Tyler would have for him in the morning before remembering that he was home.

Everything was a little too quiet yet he felt safe. Being here was a great thing.

*****

Rather than call someone for a ride, Frank ended up driving himself over to Gabe and Vicky's house the day of the party. It was awesome to have that kind of control over the when and the how he'd get there. The address was on a rather artsy part of the city. One elbow on the window, cigarette in hand, Frank listened to a Converge/Lost Alone playlist as he drove. Though it was true he was slightly nervous, the excitement of hanging out with the people who had become his friends totally overrode his anxieties.

He couldn't have missed the house even if he had wanted to: 80s dance music blasting, people walking around with plastic cups in hand, a random couple making out by the trees in front; it was obvious that the Saportas knew how to party.

Feeling suddenly timid, Frank parked his car and went about getting his chair ready, his movements mechanical as he tried to shrug off the urge to pack everything up and leave. Though it was true that Gabe and company _could_ show up at his house, Frank had a feeling they were all way too much into the party to notice his absence.

 _How do you expect to have a life if you chicken out about something as simple as hanging out with people?_ a voice that sounded a little like Brian's said somewhere in his mind. Frank knew Brian, his conscience or whatever was right. He hopped onto his chair and crossed the street. A smile bloomed on his face when he saw the ramp leading to the front porch.

The crowd at the party was a mix of Christie Institute staff and some people he didn't know. Frank got a beer from someone in the kitchen and settled down a couple of feet away from Bob. He nursed that one beer the whole night. As expected, Gabe and Quinn gave him plenty of shit about it.

"What the fuck, Iero?" Quinn said, half-slurring his words. "Are you going to be drinking fucking Mimosas next?"

"Hey," Gabe said, elbowing Quinn on the side, "I can make a mean Mimosa. Maybe our Frank is simply warming up. 'cause he knows we'll end up doing Jaggerbombs by sunrise."

"Dudes, chill." Frank took a sip of his beer. He was already feeling buzzy from it. "It's been I don't even know how many fucking months since I had any alcohol. Plus, I'm my own designated driver. No way am I getting wasted tonight."

"It's cool if you want to crash, Frankie-cakes," Gabe said after taking Quinn's cup and drinking from it. He made a sour face and handed it back to his friend. "Soon as the sun is up, we're having the after-party BBQ and pool fiesta. You don't want to miss this."

"How about a raincheck?" Frank didn't think he was going to be staying overnight. Still, it felt nice to be asked.

Gabe jerked his chin at Frank. "Want 'nother one? I think there's still a couple of brewskis left in the fridge."

"I'm A-OK, dude," Frank said.

"Help yourself if you get thirsty then, man." Gabe shook his head with mock disappointment at Frank's wussiness. He opened his mouth, seemingly ready to keep talking trash at him until Bob, who had been quietly smoking by the open living room window, stubbed his cigarette on a nearby ashtray and crossed his arms menacingly.

"You're lucky I'm afraid of Bob and his Nordic manliness, Frankie," Gabe said before heading to the living room when some hip-hop song started playing.

Frank tipped his halfway-full bottle at Bob in thanks, making the latter blush.

The party raged on. At one point, he saw Gabe dancing pretty close with some skinny guy with big hair and Vicky telling some story while some guy named Peter or Petey mixed drinks left and right.

A shirtless, lean man with some impressive ink sat down next to him. "'Sup?" he said.

Frank didn't want to appear like he was cruising the guy, but he couldn't stop staring at the man's tattoos. "Wow, you must have a heck of a tattoo artist," he said, pointing at the typewriter on the man's stomach.

"Hmm?" The man looked at him. "Oh, most of this was done by my number one artist in my shop. I'm Jepha. You've got some nice ones too."

"Thanks," Frank said while shaking Jepha's hand. "Most of it was done by Cortez before he decided to move to London. I'm Frank."

Jepha raised an eyebrow and gave an appreciative nod. "Matt Cortez, right? Yeah, I've heard of him. Say, you've got anything in mind? I mean, for a hypothetical future tattoo."

"Kind of," Frank said, glancing at the rest of Jepha's tats. Jepha's designs were both beautiful and creepy. 

"Well, not to sound like some creepy salesman, but you should definitely swing by Pineapple Tattoos. That's the name of my shop. My people do excellent job. A few have tattooed para and quads."

"Really? That's pretty cool. Do you have a card?" Frank _had_ been thinking of one specific thing. Maybe it was time to get it done.

"I actually do," Jepha said, tugging on a chain by his thigh until he pulled out his wallet and handing him a card. "Call to set up an appointment or walk-in. Whatever is more convenient for you."

Eventually, Jepha got pulled away by Quinn and Frank went back to taking small sips of his Heineken. Bob offered him a cigarette and two of them smoked while observing the chaos around them.

Whether it was the amount of people or being social with many of them after a long period during which his world had been reduced to his parents and his immediate therapists, Frank started to feel peopled-out after a few hours of chit-chatting with Dallon, Greta and Quinn. He checked his watch and went around looking for either Vicky or Gabe to say good-bye. Not finding either, he waved at Bob and Jepha (who looked like they were caught while in the middle of some heavy flirting thing) and headed to the front door, car keys in hand.

"Just where do you think you're going, little man?" Tyler said. His yellow sweater, teal pants and pink hair looking strangely subdued at one in the morning. "First of all, I just got here. Secondly, you can't leave without getting your present. Elaine, make sure that he doesn't peel off any time soon, OK?" he told the small woman Frank had often seen him with. He went back into the house after waiting for Elaine's nod.

"Do you know what all is about?" Frank said after spending a couple of moments in awkward silence.

"Yup," she answered.

"And you're not going to tell me?" Frank said, giving her a pleading look.

She gave him a side smile. "Nope. Tyler would throw an epic hissy fit. But don't worry, it's a good present. I think Tyler said it was Brendon's idea."

At that, Frank took out his Zippo lighter, playing with it by flipping the top open and closed a few times. Though tiny, Elaine had a kind of 'don't fuck with me' attitude that told Frank to behave.

Tyler came back right around the time Frank had begun planning his escape. He was holding what looked like . . .

"A pet carrier?" Frank raised an eyebrow.

"We think you might want to have someone to look after," Tyler said after opening the carrier and taking out what to Frank looked like the world's smallest Chihuahua. "This is Peppers. She's housebroken, spayed and is super-sweet. Also, she's from the shelter Ryan--you know Brendon's boyfriend--works at. Soon as he saw her, he told Brendon about her, things started to snowball and, well, here we are."

"The hell am I going to do with a dog?" Frank said when Tyler put Peppers on Frank's lap.

"Take her out for walks? Play with her?" Tyler answered matter-of-factly. "Having a cute dog is a great way to pick up people," he whispered when he leaned over. "Or so I've heard."

Frank's argument against keeping the dog died when Peppers lifted her head and yawned, licking her muzzle before curling back down. Damn dog was probably in on it with Tyler. In his heart of hearts, Frank had always been a dog person. That he hadn't had one was mostly due to him putting off going to the shelters. Perhaps the fact that Frank was quiet for a few while staring at the sleeping Peppers made Tyler nervous.

"You don't have to keep her, Frank, if you don't want to. We all just thought you'd be a little lonely." Tyler's face was bashful.

Frank petted Peppers' back, snorting when she stretched out and showed him her pink belly. "Shameless," he said. "All of you."

To his credit, Tyler didn't whoop in victory. Instead, he gave him a happy thumbs-up. "We've got her food and water bowls, her leash and some food in the trunk of my car. Hold on, OK."

"No worries," he replied, his blunt nails gently scratching Peppers' belly.

It was close to two in the morning by the time they put all of Peppers' things in Frank's car. After saying good-bye to Tyler and Elaine, Frank put Peppers back in the carrier before getting behind the wheel. "Tell Brendon thanks for me, will you?"

Tyler nodded back, a huge smile and waved him good-bye.

*****

Frank spent Monday and Tuesday going over his finances (something that was as fun as getting two root canals done) and emailing some of the online magazines he'd worked for in the past. Wednesday, he was nearly done with organizing his portfolio of stock photos, picking some of his best ones so that he could sell them to the agencies, when his phone rang.

"Good morn--"he checked the time on his computer, "erm, afternoon. This is Frank."

"Hi," a man said, his voice a little scratchy but friendly, "it's Ray. Ray Toro? I thought--well, I thought we could meet today if you had some free time?"

The hot-cold reaction that rippled through Frank had nothing to do with his excitement at hearing Ray's voice and everything to do with being caught by surprise (or so he told himself before he said something.) "Oh, hey."

"Caught you at a bad time?"

"No," Frank said as casually as he could while doing one last save and shutting down his computer. "I was just taking care of some stuff. Um, but yeah, it'd be cool to go sit down with you. You've got a place in mind?"

"Yeah. Do you know Curly's Diner on Magnolia Street? I can give you directions if you need them."

"Is that the diner that's in front of Video!Video!Video!, right?" Frank scrunched up his eyebrows. He had worked at "V3" as a teenager, right around the time his parents divorced. "Funny. I mean, that's kind of a local spot. Where are you?"

"My family's from Belleville?" Ray said, sounding a little confused.

"No shit, really?" Frank giggled. "Small fucking world. Anyway, yeah, I can meet you at the diner. How about in an hour?"

"All right," Ray replied, "see you there."

Frank hung up the phone, the thrill of meeting Ray making him smile all the way to his bedroom. Thankfully, he had already walked Peppers less than hour before.

"Hey, girl, I'm going out for a few," he told her when she ran to him, jumping onto his lap. "Be good and don't chew any of the cords. I promise you a long walk when I come back, OK?" He had gotten into the habit of talking to her fairly quickly. It helped that Peppers wasn't intimidated by the chair at all and would hang around Frank all day long. Picking her up off his lap, he placed her back on the floor with care. "I gotta get, well, if not pretty, then presentable at least."

Peppers yipped at him before trotting back to the doggy bed Frank had bought for the living room.

He chose a plain black long-sleeved t-shirt and dark jeans, hoping to keep his look somewhere between casual and cool. The temperatures had started to drop now that fall was in full swing. Frank had dressed accordingly, snagging one of his warmest hoodies on the way out of the door.

Though he had thought that Ray had picked Curly's because it was a local place, Frank soon realized that it also had a ramp. He shook his head, momentarily glad for Ray's thoughtfulness at choosing that diner over one that had steps only. "Smoking, please," he told the waitress who welcomed him to the restaurant and followed her to the outside patio.

He rolled his wheelchair back and forth on the outside terrace, trying to get some of his nervous energy out of his system. Stopping once his hands started to hurt a little, Frank let his thoughts wander. What the hell was he doing? What if he didn't click with Ray after meeting him face-to-face? Was it too late to back out of doing this? He took out his pack, putting a cigarette into his mouth, wishing like hell that everything was going to turn out all right.

Lit cigarette in hand, ashing it absentmindedly while staring out to the garden, Frank was startled by the sound of terrace door opening. A guy wearing mirrored aviator glasses (and whose face was framed by the biggest and curliest hair Frank had ever seen) walked up to the table. "Frank?" he said, taking his sunglasses off and blinking like the dying sunlight was too bright.

"Uh, yeah?" Frank cleared his throat. Talking shouldn't be this awkward. "I mean, yes. I'm Frank. You're Ray, right?"

"The one and only," Ray answered. "For a moment there, I thought I was running late when I showed up and didn't see anyone inside. I always forget Curly's has some of the crappiest parking I've ever seen." Ray extended his right hand. "Nice to meet you," he said before sitting down.

"Likewise," he said, grateful that Ray had settled himself at eye level. Frank smiled and shook his hand, glad to feel Ray's sure grip. He let his eyes go over Ray, hoping he wasn't creepy about it, taking in the way the blue sweater clung to Ray's body, his brown, soft curls and the brightest smile he'd ever seen. Up until then, he hadn't realized that he never asked Ray what he'd looked like.

"OK," Ray said, turning serious enough for Frank to keep his focus on what he was saying, "I want to hear what you want to accomplish from your time spent with me."

"Well," Frank said trying to put his thoughts in order, giving himself time to be OK with the possibility that whatever he was about to say was going to sound very stupid."You might think this is going to sound stupid."

"Eh, there's no stupid comments, Frank." Ray paused and scratched his hair for a moment. "Unless, that is you're about to tell me that Iron Maiden sucks. If you ask me, that'd be a surefire sign that this could never be a successful partnership.”

Frank giggled. "Or the Misfits. You can't be from Jersey and disrespect such an important institution. Anyway, like I told you on my email, I'm paralyzed from right around my belly button down. My lack of sensation extends to my dick...um, sorry, should I use more proper language?"

"Huh?" Ray said. "No. I mean, use whatever words you're comfortable with. I'm not here to make any kind of judgments. Plus, believe me, I've heard a lot of things."

"All right," Frank nodded. "So my dick? It's not like it doesn't count because it still _there_ and it gets hard, but, at the same time, I don't get any pleasure from touching it. I really don't know what to do about it or this whole sex thing? Because I'm still me and I think I would want to be with someone. The problem, if you want to call it that, is that I have to take my cock and my ass out of the equation. Where does that leave me?"

Ray gave him a look halfway between confused and amused.

"So much of the gay culture is about the cock and, well, I'm kind of, I dunno, pissed off about that? Sounds fucking weird. It's the truth, though. I want to move past cock and fucking because I still want that connection. I don't know. Basically, I want to have sex without having to bring my broken cock into it. Hmm, I get the feeling that, soon as I said that there's a club filled with gay men who have just collectively gasped in shock."

"That might be true, but so is your frustration," Ray said, splaying his hands open. "Your penis is an organ of your body. No more, no less. Your brain, your tongue and your skin are parts of you too."

"I've read a little about that, but I don't even know how to take that and, like, rewire myself into accepting the idea that I won't ever come. Also, you know, this is going to sound very shitty and un-PC, but I know that the wheels and the dead legs are a pretty big turn off."

Ray tilted his head. "Do you know that for a fact or are you making an assumption? You're a cute dude. I think that you could meet men who are attracted to you. This is me giving you some perspective."

"Aww, shucks," Frank said in a flat tone. "And here I was thinking we were discussing the possibilities of bumping uglies."

"Joke all you want, Frank," Ray said, brightly, "but my job usually goes beyond showing you how to express yourself sexually. Besides, I have a feeling that you'll be a fast learner."

"So," Frank said after they had their coffees, "how did you ended up working as a sex surrogate?"

"Ah, well," Ray said, blinking a few times before taking an extra sip of his coffee. "I went to college to study film because I had this idea that I could be the next Alfred Hitchcock. Beginning of my junior year, I audited a couple of human sexuality classes. Didn't read a lot of books. I've never been a big reader," he said almost apologetically, "which is probably why it was a good thing that I was auditing and not taking it for real grades. Anyway, one of the books I did end up finishing was one about Masters and Johnson. It had two chapters about surrogates and I was totally fascinated. I ended up going to the library and getting a card because I wanted to find out as much as I could about it. I met some people who put me in touch with the East coast chapter of IPSA, um, that's the International Professional Surrogates Association. Then, I did a lot of studying--you wouldn't believe what it takes to get accredited--and then I started to see clients."

"Do you like it?" Frank grimaced. "Sorry. I mean, obviously you do 'cause you're here. But do you find it fulfilling?"

"It's an interesting job. I think sexuality is so ingrained into who we are, you know? Back at the beginning of my career, I only worked with female clients. Eventually, I moved on to couples and now I tend to work almost exclusively with men."

"Really?"

"Well, I'm married and part of the reason why Christa accepts my job is because I don't have sex with my female clients. I'll, ahem, assist but for the most part, I prefer to work with men."

"Wow, married to a lady?" Frank bit his lower lip. "So, you're bi?"

Ray turned his cup for a few seconds before answering. "More like _heteroflexible_. The human body is a beautiful thing, no matter if it's perfect or not, or if it has scars or is missing a limb or two. I can focus on a man and help him figure things out, but, at the end of the day, it's women who I'm definitely attracted to."

"That's cool," Frank said, taking a break from the conversation by draining his cup.

"Based on what you've told me, I'm thinking that we won't need more than two, maybe three sessions. Each lasting around two hours. Now, my normal fee is $200 per hour, but I can give you the Tyler discount and scale it down to $125 per hour?"

Frank cracked his knuckles. "That sounds pretty reasonable."

Ray took out his cellphone and started to tap on the screen. "Good. I know you're settling down at home so how about starting next week?"

"Sounds like a plan," Frank replied. "Hey, by the way, how did you end up with Tyler as a roommate?"

"Oh, man, that's one wacky story," Ray said after he stopped laughing. "My first roommate and I didn't get along at all. He was a very type-A law student who claimed to be very straight and used all kinds of hate speech to make his point about that. Usually, I'm very laid back, you know. But there are only so many times I can deal with someone talking about "those faggots" and the "bitch lezzies" from the Gay-Straight Alliance group on campus."

"Hmm, let me guess, he was a flaming and closeted homo, right?" Frank smirked.

"To tell you the truth, I never found out. Right at the end of the third week of school, he moved out off campus. I was, of course, very happy to wave goodbye at him. Anyway, I had to find a roommate fast and so I went around campus asking everyone I knew . . ."

*****

After heading home and taking a nap, Frank went through his entire routine of exercises and stretches, The Architects' first album playing on the background. Almost an hour later, body covered in sweat, he wheeled himself to the kitchen, turning on his coffee machine so that he could have a fresh cup after his shower. Peppers followed him, possibly hoping that Frank would give her a treat or two.

"Oh, crap," he said after realizing that he had used the last of the coffee. If he wanted more later (a likely thing to happen), he would have to brave going to the supermarket. It had been a while since he had gone grocery shopping; his mom would usually bring him some freezer-ready meals that would last him a few weeks, dropping off coffee and other pantry staples as well. As much as he liked her cooking, he had to admit that it bugged him to think that his own mom thought he was incapable of cooking for himself. Davidson's was only fifteen minutes away. He could go there and do his shopping without much trouble.

He glanced at Peppers, promising her treats later before he turned around and went to the bathroom. Shower, then grocery shopping and then some guitar practice. Easy fucking peasy.

One hour later, he turned the engine off and placed his hands on the wheel. The parking lot wasn't full and yet, Frank killed a few seconds as he psyched himself up to follow through. He'd already been out earlier in the day; this wasn't going to be a big deal. Or so he hoped.

Reassembling Bela and getting out of his car took a little bit longer than usual. Pocketing his keys and checking that his wallet was in one of his hoodie's pockets, he started on the way to Davidson's main entrance.

Other than a few curious looks from a group of old ladies, things had gone pretty routinely. Basket filled to the brim with everything on his list, Frank headed to the cashier when he heard some shrieking that stopped him on his tracks.

"Mommy, Mommy! Look at that man!"

Frank did a 180 and saw a young kid pointing straight at him.

A young woman approached the kid and lowered his arm. "It's not nice to point at people, Stephen." She looked at Frank and mouthed "I'm sorry" before herding the kid to the frozen foods section.

Keeping his eyes on the boy, Frank nodded what he hoped came off as a "no big deal". He frowned, however, when little Stephen held on to one of the woman's legs and looked back at him, his brown eyes big and fearful. _So much for not being a freak today_ , Frank thought after turning around and getting in line to pay for his groceries.

Some ten minutes later, he was almost done putting the plastic bags in the trunk of his car when a teenage girl to his right stopped and tapped him on his shoulder. "Excuse me, do you need some help with that?" she asked in a casual voice.

He shook his head after closing the trunk door and wheeling himself backwards so that he could look at the girl's face. It'd have been so easy to snap at her, to snap at anyone really, because it was pretty clear that he had things under control. "I'm cool," he said after brushing off the feeling that he was some kind of invalid. "Thanks, anyways."

"OK," the girl said, putting her earbuds back in her ears and walking toward her car.

*****

The following Tuesday arrived faster than Frank had expected.

Frank checked his breath for the millionth time. He had gotten up early to clean around the house--including doing laundry and changing his bed sheets for fresh ones. Ray was due to show up at his house any minute. His stomach felt funny (thankfully, not in the "hey, you're about to get sick!" way). On the one hand, Ray was coming over with the express purpose of helping him in bed. On the other, this wasn't a date.

He decided to take a five-minute break when he found himself fretting over which AC/DC album to play in the background. Frank wasn't as much of a metal enthusiast as Ray was, but he wanted to feel like he was bringing something into the session other than his broken body. Peppers kept shadowing him to the point that he almost ran over her tail. He knew it was bad if he was driving his dog crazy.

He took a deep breath when the doorbell rang followed by a knock on the door.

Attempting to smooth his hair down (he would seriously have to go get a proper haircut one of these days), he wheeled himself to the door, smiling as he opened it. "Hi. Come on in," he said, moving to the side to make space for Ray.

"Thanks," Ray said. "Nice place. Oh, hey there, doggie." He crouched down when Peppers jogged over to check the stranger out.

Frank couldn't help staring at the way the black jeans Ray wore looked like they had been practically painted on him. He had a white t-shirt on and a cool, black leather jacket over that. "So, um, how do we do this?"

Ray stopped scratching Peppers' head and gave Frank the kind of smile that would have made him weak-kneed if he still had feelings in his legs. "How about you go into your bedroom and get comfortable? Do you need any assistance?"

"No, I'm cool," Frank said, lying through his teeth. His heart was beating so hard, it was a miracle he hadn’t passed out. "Do I--do I have to get naked?" He hated how small his voice sounded just then. However, it'd been so long since he last had been in a situation that included the possibility of sex. His self-consciousness over how different things were now kept him frozen on the spot.

"Hey, we don’t have to go so fast. This isn't a race and no one-- _no one_ \--loses cool points if he's not ready to get in bed," Ray said.

Frank closed his eyes, his face feeling hot at the freak out he was trying to hold back. He curled his hands into fists. "I. I want to, um, see what can happen." He felt Ray's hands covering his, rubbing his knuckles until he was able to lace his fingers with Frank's.

"This is a big step, Frank," Ray said in a quiet voice. "Well, they are _all_ big steps. I don't want you to think that you 'have to do this' or 'have to do that'. I might push a little because this is your time to learn about yourself. There are no should's allowed, OK?"

Holding on to Ray's words as well as to his touch, innocent as it was, Frank's sole focus had sharpened to the point that he had no time to react when he felt Ray's breath ghosted over his mouth followed by the press of Ray's mouth on his. He tilted his head to the side and opened his mouth, fueled by the feeling of delight that flooded his body. They kissed long enough for Frank to feel half-drunk.

"There," Ray said once he pulled back. "Better? You kinda went very pale when I said "bedroom" Wanted to keep you from passing out, thought I could help you relax."

"Yeah," Frank said dreamily. "I'm totally cool."

"Good. Now that you've realized there's nothing to get nervous about, I want to talk to you, very briefly, about what is going to happen."

Frank nodded. "OK, hit me."

"Like I said before, today's session is about what feels good to _you_ , focusing on how your body reacts to stimuli, namely my touch. Because of the location of your injury and your loss of sensation below it, I am hesitant about stroking your genital area. The goal of spending this time together is to acknowledge sexually positive responses, you know?"

"Yeah, I get it," Frank said when it was clear that Ray was waiting for a reply from him. "My hand is well-acquainted with my cock. But, you're right, jerking off is fucking frustrating."

"Right," Ray said. "That's why we will be concentrating on your torso, face, neck, shoulders. Pretty much anywhere above your belly button. And, you know, I want you to feel relaxed, so if you want to reciprocate that's fine. If all you want is to be doted on as we evaluate your body, that's OK too. Because this session is about you figuring out what feels good and the like, I'm going to keep my briefs on. You can get naked or not, whatever makes you more comfortable."

"Gotcha," Frank said, still not sure of how many layers he was going to take off.

"I'm going to be talking to you throughout the session. We can discuss anything you want about what happens afterwards. Cool?"

"Absolutely," Frank said. "I'm ready."

"Excellent," Ray said, smiling at him. "Let's get started then."

Frank licked his lips then turned around and went into his bedroom. Despite the excitement from the surprise kiss and Ray's pep-talk, Frank's instinct led him to keep his boxers on. "Ray?" he called out, straining his hearing to keep track of Ray walking to his bedroom

"Yes?" Ray said as he stood on the doorway. He had taken off his jacket, t-shirt and shoes.

Frank stared. It wasn't that Ray was buff because he wasn't. His broad shoulders and nice chest were balanced out by his soft belly. Frank ogled. He couldn't speak.

He didn't even know where to start.

Ray's intuitive nature must have taken over because he quickly took off his jeans and made his way to Frank's bed. Sliding onto it, he ran a hand from Frank's neck all the way to his waist and then back up. His touch was sure and, in its wake, it left Frank feeling like his skin was on fire. "How does this feel?"

"This is go-good."

Ray hmmed. He propped his head on his right hand and gently pushed Frank onto his back. Using his free hand, he ran his thumb across Frank's clavicles, smiling at Frank's soft whimpers when he glided it down to one of his nipples. "Everything we're doing right now is about mapping your body. We want to find out what feels good, what doesn't and where you and/or your partner will want to focus on."

"Whoa," Frank sighed. "Too much," he said when Ray pinched one nipple, then the next between thumb and forefinger. He let his mouth fall open, panting harshly when Ray alternated his nipple play.

"OK, now we know one your lava-level hot spots," Ray said. "I'm wondering though, how about this?"

Frank was about to ask "what?" only to bite his lower lip when Ray glided his tongue all around his nipples before he started to suck on them. He grabbed onto his bed sheets, taking fistfuls of them when it became clear that Ray's plan was to kill him by making his body sing. "F-f-fuck!"

Ray leaned over once again, grabbing Frank's nipple with his teeth while flicking his tongue on the very tip of it.

By that time, Frank's body had broken out in a sweat. Taking shallow breaths, he gave himself over to every single sensation Ray could wring out of him.

He realized that he'd been waiting to feel his cock get hard. A part of him way, way in the back of his mind was disappointed that wasn’t going to happen. Most of him, however, felt _alive_ for the first time in a long while. He grabbed Ray and pulled him on top of him, holding onto his hair and kissing him hard, every press of his lips was one more message of intention.

For his part, Ray followed his lead eagerly, his enthusiasm spilling over as he ran his hands over Frank's shoulders, the juncture in the inside of his elbows, his armpits and his entire chest. The gentleness of Ray's hands were expected. The roughness of his calloused fingers made every stroke a nice surprise. It was heaven. After some time, he began to slow down his caresses until he stopped and stared at Frank, his gaze friendly. "Good, huh?"

Frank could only nod and try to calm his breathing down so that he could talk. "I didn't know it could be like this."

"That's what I'm here for, Frank. To show you that your days of being a sexual individual aren't done," Ray said. 

"And you took me there without needing a map," Frank said on a soft exhale. He let his body glide on the familiar sensation of the afterglow. "It's so weird, you know?"

"What's that?" Ray asked, pushing his hair back. "Was there something you didn't like?"

"Hmm?" Frank turned until he was facing Ray. "No, there wasn't anything bad about what we just did. I was thinking about how there was this kind of build-up to, um, coming? Like, my heart started racing and there was this sort of familiar pressure on my belly. The more you played with my, um, nipples, the more intense everything felt..."

"But?"

"I waited to feel my balls pulling up and all that." He looked down and smirked at the way the front of his boxers tented a little. "It didn't happen--even with my body, you know, cooperating--but I feel relaxed. So I...came? But I don't know how it happened. It's really fucking weird."

Ray rubbed his chin. "Yeah, I get that. It's a trippy alternate to what you've known ever since you started masturbating. The human body has an incredible level for improvisation after injuries such as yours. In this instance, you've become more aware of certain reactions that had been in the background. The sensitivity in your nipples, the pleasure you feel when someone glides their hands on your sides, the nice throb when someone bites you--all of those things have been there. Maybe they were part of your foreplay before. "

Frank nodded absentmindedly. "And now they're the main course. Huh, I'd never thought of sex like that."

Ray gave him a side smile. "I did notice that you went somewhere at one point? Like, your body was here but your mind was elsewhere?"

"Oh," Frank said, half-embarrassed at having gone so deep into what Ray had done to him, "I had a moment where I was confused as to why I wasn't getting hard. Um, but then I thought "fuck it, all of what he's doing to me feels good." and then, I got back with the program."

"With flying colors even," Ray said laughing for a few seconds and making space for him before Frank joined him. "Everyone deserves to be touched and loved. There's nothing wrong with wanting that."

Frank assumed he was going to feel awkward when Ray let go of him and said that he had to go, getting out of bed and picking up his clothes. Instead, it was Ray's cock, half-hard and straining against the dark blue thin material of his boxer briefs, what ended up distracting Frank out of any embarrassing moments. _I could help you with that_ , he almost said when Ray noticed what was going on and look down to himself.

"This isn't about me, Frank," he said in a smooth voice. "We can explore how you can give pleasure to your partner next time, deal?"

"Ye-yeah," Frank replied, nodding as he made himself look at Ray's face, "that's cool."

"Awesome. I'll be right back," Ray said before he left the bedroom.

Frank used the time Ray spent in the bathroom dressing back up to put on his own clothes and write Ray a check. He transferred over to his chair and went into the kitchen to get them something to drink.

By the time Ray stepped back out into the kitchen, he looked exactly the same: a tall dude with poofy hair that was happy to accept a bottle of water from Frank.

 _Funny_ , Frank thought, _just a moment ago we were practically rubbing all over each other_. He smiled at him, enjoying the banked fire that emanated from Ray's gaze. "So, this whole 'sex after an SCI' thing is just like riding a bike, huh?"

"Except with more exposed skin and less kneepads. Well, unless that's your kind of thing," Ray replied with ease.

Frank snorted. "Yeah, well, I don't know about that. I--" he snapped his mouth shut.

"What's up, Frank?" Ray asked, radiating concern.

"I was going to ask you if it was going to feel like this, if _sex_ was always going to be this, I guess the word would be 'intense'. There's no answer for that, is there?"

Ray drank the last of the water. "I believe that the biggest difference between the way you had sex before your accident and the way you will have sex from now on is communication. It's true that there will be people who might not consider you as an 'acceptable' sexual partner, but there are others that will. I believe that you'll end up having fun in bed if you're honest with whoever you end up bringing into your bedroom. And by honest, I mean telling them what can and can't happen, what you are and aren't comfortable with. Um, I don't know if that answers your question?"

"In a way it does, yeah," Frank answered. 

"Good," Ray said. He went to the sofa and put on his leather jacket. "OK, I've got to go. I'll see you next week, yeah?"

Fighting the urge to kiss Ray goodbye, Frank waved as Ray left his house.

*****

Jamia's e-mail was sitting in his inbox the following morning. An old high school friend, Jamia moved to NYC after getting her diploma and had, after some lean years, created Skeleton Crew, an independent on-line music magazine that was considered pretty respectable in most circles. Frank had paid plenty of bills through writing music and concert reviews from the Jersey scene.

He and Jamia had been close to the point that everyone back in high school thought they'd dated. There had been that one time when they got drunk at a house party and almost kissed. The moment passed when a fight broke out in the kitchen, putting an end not only to the party but to their near lip-lock. Frank drove Jamia home and then lay in bed, thinking about how he had had no desire to kiss Jamia and wondering what that meant for him.

She had been the first person he came out to (which had earned him both a celebratory hug and a light punch on his shoulder). Hers was the magazine he had been working an assignment for the night he had the accident.

Whether or not because she felt guilty, Frank didn't know. But her attitude was definitely cooler (if not out and out avoid-y) after he ended up in the hospital. This was part of the reason why he was so surprised to hear from her after so many months.

**Jamian@skeletoncrew.net Re: Favor?**

_Frank,_

_I'm sorry it's taken me this long to write to you. After your accident, I heard from your mom about you not wanting any visitors. I know this makes me sound like a coward, but I thought it'd be best to keep my distance. I wasn't sure you'd want to see me, we had been out of touch for so long. I didn't want you to think that I was trying to reconnect with you out of pity._

_Your inquiry about doing some freelance to the magazine was forwarded to me. It was good to hear from you. I'd been wondering how you'd been._

_Anyway, sorry for making this short. I'm in Vancouver right now, taking some time off from the magazine. I heard that Aftermath and Co. is going to play at Va-Va-Voom this Saturday. Do you think you'd be up to going over there and writing a review of their performance for the magazine? The fee would be the usual. I can have Worm send you the details and hook you up with the list and whatnot._

_J._

Frank sat there for a couple of minutes, trying to get over the fact that Jamia had sent him an email. Unexpected but welcomed, he typed up a quick reply to her (cc'd to Worm as well) and spent a few hours listening to Anti-Flag before getting ready for rehab.

******

Much as he didn't want to, Frank rolled himself to Brian's office. Now that he was an outpatient, his sessions had gone from three per week to once a week. Brian knew he had met with Ray and was most probably expecting to analyze that to its very core. A low growl of anxiety started to stir inside of his stomach.

"Oh, the prodigal returns," Brian said as a way of greeting.

"Nah, not returning," Frank said after he transferred himself to the brown leather chaise that faced Brian. "Just passing through."

"You look very," Brian gave him an appreciative once over, " _relaxed_. Even have some color on your cheeks."

"Yeah, yeah, smartass," Frank said after rolling his eyes, "I know you're just dying to hear all about my sexcapades with Ray. Then you're gonna want to break it all down, throw in a couple of big words so that what I say doesn't sound like a trashy novel."

Brian made a so-so gesture with his hands. "I'm not getting any kicks from this because I'm not in it for the porn highlights, Frank. As your therapist, I'm more interested on what you think about yourself and how things might or might not have changed. How do you feel about it?"

"It was..." Frank looked off into the distance. Words failing to help him describe what it'd meant to have someone touch him now. He settled for using simple words. "It was good. Ray has a way of calming me down."

"Mmhmm" was all Brian said. That was more than enough for Frank to continue talking.

"We didn't _do_ much. If you look at it objectively or whatever. The thing is--" he cracked his knuckles. "Have you ever been hospitalized?"

If Brian was startled by the randomness of Frank's segue, he kept it well-hidden. "Um, not that I can remember. Why?"

Frank pursed his lips before answering. "When you spend any amount of time at the hospital, you come to the realization that everyone will touch you. Like, in a detached way?"

"That's one of the things you learn when studying medicine, yes."

"Right. But, like, even when I transferred here. The physios kept it on a professional level. Once I got home, I didn't--it didn't occur to me that I could touch myself since there was no point to _touching_ myself, catch my drift?"

"There's also the difference between one's touch and someone else's."

"Exactly!" Frank said. "Ray's hands put in me in a fucking trance or something. There was intention to everything he was doing to me. Even a simple gesture like sliding a hand down my shoulders got me all worked up."

"Because you felt wanted," Brian said.

Frank rubbed his chin. "I'd forgotten what that was like."

******

The one good thing about the Va-Va-Voom, other than it was one of the few venues where smoking was OK, was that it was all on one level. Aftermath and Co. was an up-and-coming punk band from Vermont (of all places). Frank had been listening to their album _The Pleasure's All Mine_ , getting lost on the fast melodies and deep lyrics that touched on anything and everything from the war in Iraq to being an individual in a conformist society.

Their tour had become the hot ticket once they got the Anti-Heroes and The 77s on their ticket.

Frank had expected the concert to be packed. He made a point to arrive a little bit after the doors opened so that he could get a primo spot. Worm caught up with him in the parking lot and the two of them shared a quick smoke before going in. In some ways, Worm reminded Frank of Bob.

For he took one look at Bela and said "suits you" before talking about having a post-concert interview with Aftermath and Co. and maybe the opening bands as well.

Frank made it fine through the first door and the hallway where the cashier was, but the second entrance--the one that actually led into the space where the band were going to play--proved to be too narrow for his chair. "Fucking A!" he said as he backed up and moved to the outside.

"Hey," he said talking to the bouncer, "is there a side entrance?"

The bouncer, to his credit, didn't make a face. Instead, he called out to some dude that was chatting up the cashier in the little hallway where Frank had gotten stuck at. "Show him the other entrance," bouncer dude said.

"Thanks," Frank said. "I owe you a drink."

"I'll hold you to that!" bouncer dude yelled.

Frank followed the second dude into an alleyway that wasn't exactly free of debris. Thankfully, it hadn't rained nor did it smelled of piss (yet. The Va-Va-Voom's plumbing was infamous for breaking down whenever people showed up. Some of the folks chose to relieve themselves in the alley. It was gross.)

Finally inside, Frank shook his frustration off by ordering a beer. Soon, the place began to fill up. He scanned the crowd, lots of teens and 20-somethings acting tough, and settled down on the far right side of the room, almost perpendicular to the stage, for what promised to be a killer show.

All of his earlier anger dissipated as the bands got onstage and started playing. The mosh pit was, Frank noticed, pretty unisex. He stared at the people shoving into each other and letting all of their aggression out with a kind of longing for what would never be. He shifted his focus back on the bands, taking quick drags of his cigarette. By the time the concert was over, he felt as tired as those who had been running around in the pit. In its own way, the concert had been cathartic for everyone.

As it happened, Frank managed to get a couple of minutes to talk to Aftermath and Co.'s lead guitarist as well as to have a super-fast interview with The 77s' drummer. He wasn't sure if either interview would work for his purposes, but he felt sure that going to the concert had been a good idea. Shooting a quick good-bye text to Worm, Frank left the venue through what ended up being the side entrance that the bands used to bring in their instruments.

*****

Frank twiddled with the radio dials as he was pulling out of the parking lot, finally settling on a jazz station currently playing a song that had the world's saddest trumpet. Traffic was light; he was able to drive while his mind went over the concert. Truth was, he hadn't _allowed_ himself to think about going to a gig, hadn't even gone to a club in the time since he returned home. Parking his car in his driveway, he gave himself a last minute to be mopey before gathering his things and putting Bela back together.

Peppers trotted over to him, barking with happiness before running to and away from Frank.

"Yes, your highness, I'm going to get the royal leash and take you out for one last walk, OK?" Frank said while trying to maneuver away from Peppers and reaching out for the leash on the kitchen table. He whistled for Peppers and waited for her to settle down before clipping one end of the retractable leash to her collar and placing the handle on his brake. "All right," he said as he opened the door, "let's make it count."

Refreshed from the cool night temps, Frank spent the next two hours working on his article for Skeleton Crew. Finger flying over his laptop's keyboard, he ended up with a decent write-up. He put in the final edits to his review of the Aftermath and Co. show and sent it to Worm. Barely past midnight, he was nowhere near feeling sleepy. Peppers had laid by his feet, her tiny head resting on top of his right ankle. He surfed on over to a few of his favorite blogs, eventually landing on the Blood 'n' Guts site.

There were times when he liked checking out the posts, trolling the ones he thought were stupid. Getting in bitchfights (if not, actual flame wars) was a way to pass the time. He had almost zeroed in on a particularly obnoxious post--where the OP had ranted against classics like _The Omen_ and _The Exorcist_ because "religion had no place in horror film", when the post right below caught his eye.

ZombieUnicorn81's post title was **HELP WITH SHARK MOVIES FOR BACHELOR PARTY!** It read:

_My big brother is getting married in a month. I'm thinking of throwing him a bachelor party that's chock full of horror movies since him, me and all of our friends are huge fans of films that freak you out. We've got some zombie films (hell, yeah!) as well as a few selections of Korean and Japanese horror flicks. I was thinking of screening shark movies that aren't 'Jaws' or 'Deep Blue Sea.' No offense if either or both of those are fave movies. I'm looking for rare films. Most of my searches have come up empty or repetitive._

_Can anyone throw me a few titles of recent movies that aren't cheesy? I'm looking for stuff that's available in the US either on DVD or digital formats. Please comment here or reply by PMing me. Thank you and happy scares! :)_

Most of the people at the site were divided into either new torture and gore films like the _Saw_ series or classic stuff like _Friday the 13th_. There was also a very vocal group of zombie movie fans. But the fact that ZombieUnicorn81 was specifically asking for shark films was rare enough to make Frank feel curious about whom this person was. Unfortunately, the only info on the profile was that the person lived in the US. The profile was about a year old, but ZombieUnicorn81 wasn't in any of the threads Frank remembered.

Still, as a self-professed horror movie connoisseur (though, if he had to make a choice he'd always pick out zombies as his favorite movie monsters), he figured he didn't have much to lose by helping out a fellow movie fan. He sent ZombieUnicorn81 a short PM:

_Hey, dude (for the record, I don't mean to be sexist if you happen to NOT be a dude. It's the internet and you can be whoever you want to be, blah, blah, blah. I just want to make sure I don't offend by using that word. Cool name, btw):_

_Maybe someone has replied to you--I have no way of knowing--so these titles might seem redundant. I'm not that much into shark flicks (give me a good crocodile movie, though, and I'm there!), but I can definitely rec the following films as totally worth of enjoyment for your big bro's sure-to-be-awesome bachelor party._

_Don't know if you've ever seen 'A Watery Grave'? It's more suspenseful than gory. That's to say that there ARE sharks, but the emphasis of that movie is more on people trying to figure out how to survive than watching an all-around shark-feeding frenzy thing._

_I also don't think you've lived until you've seen 'Shark Swarm 2'. Yes, I'm reccing you a sequel (the horror! the horror!). Don't waste your time with the first movie in the series. It's super boring and the sharks are all CGI. Correction: they are all really bad CGI._

_'Shark Swarm 2' took the basic idea of 'Shark Swarm 1' (chemically altered sharks) and tweaked it up a beat by putting the people on an tiny island. The premise is that the island becomes a trap when the tide is high because there are almost no places to hide once the water rises. It is pretty gory and the FX are less computer-generated and more practical which really amps up the film, imho. The editing is really good and the score is minimal. One of the best things is that the characters are so stupid you will find yourself cheering for the sharks to eat them all like Pac-man._

_'They Awaken' is this weird, kinda sci-fi horror movie from Brazil. It's about a group of humans, erm, from another galaxy who crash on Planet Earth 5,000 years into the future. There's no people left on the planet and, once again, nearly everything is covered in water. One of the characters opens an ancient tomb that releases the biggest white sharks you've ever seen. It's up to the crash survivors to find some land so that they can fully repair their spaceship while being chased by the BIGGEST WHITE SHARKS YOU'VE EVER SEEN. If you ask me, I don't think the "humans-from-another-planet" thing added anything to the plot. This next thing might be the selling point, though: the lead character is played by GINA TORRES! (She's as badass as you expect her to be.)_

_I've save the best for last: 'Zombie Sharks of Doom'._

_Dude, you HAVEN'T LIVED until you've watched that movie. **ZOMBIE. SHARKS!!!** I know, I know, you think I'm either making that shit up, pulling your leg, what-have-you. I thought it was going to be like one of those Z-Grade movies, you know. Like the kind that will air on the Sci-fi channel (or whatever it's called these days.) It turned out to be a really good film. Tight plot (even with the ridiculous premise) and good acting (Sam Jackson! Fan Bing Bing! Tim Curry!). It was filmed in New Zealand so the backgrounds are gorgeous. _

_One of the things that I really like about ZSoD, a.k.a. the COOLEST shark movie you've ever seen, is that the characters act like normal people. They work as a team (though they still do stupid mistakes) and are conscious of how you don't fuck around when sharks are around. Oh, and before you ask, yes, there are human zombies (there are something like 15 characters at the beginning of the movie so a character or two getting zombiefied is bound to happen). I really don't want to spoil you about this one so I'm going to shut up now._

_From what I know, the first three movies are available on DVD at Amazon and other stores. You might have a harder time finding a good copy of ZSoD. I've seen some region-free copies for sale at the Amazon third party retailers for some primo dough (think around $70 to $200). Since I don't know you or what your money situation is like, I'm not going to be a douche and say that you have to plunk down your hard-earned dough for ZSoD. Would it TOTALLY worth if you did that, but again, I don't want to make you feel bad about that._

_Let me know if you can't get a copy of ZSoD. I might know of some other ways *cough, cough* you could get yourself a copy of that most excellent movie._

_I hope these recs have been helpful. :)_

_See you around,_

_Frankenmonster31_

_P.S.: I do have a copy of ZSoD, but you'd have to pry it from my (hopefully) not!undead hands. Sorry._

He sent his PM and went about teaching idiot misogynists and homophobes a thing or two about talking trash.

*****

Ray had caught the flu. "There really isn't any way I can...ACHOO! Sorry, that I can be of any help right now, Frank. I don't know why or how was it that I ended up so... ACHOO! so sick. But I promise you that we will resume our surrogate therapy as soon as I get better, OK?"

"No worries, Ray, and bless you," Frank said, feeling inwardly guilty at wishing Ray would make their appointment. "Plenty of rest, soup, liquids and TLC from your wife should get you on the road back to health, _amigo_. Give me a call when you're not sneezing anymore."

"All right, ACHOO!, Frank. Bye!"

"See ya, Ray." Frank fired up his laptop to check his email. Later on, he'd go outside and take some pictures of birds or the sunset. Anything to keep from feeling like a couch potato. On a whim, he went over to Blood 'n' Guts. ZombieUnicorn81 had sent him a reply:

_Hey,_

_Man, thank you so much for your PM! I didn't get any other replies (I guess shark movies aren't 'in' or something). Your recs were awesome! I remember seeing 'A Watery Grave' at the movies when it first came out, but had totally forgotten about it. *gives you thumbs up* The rest of the movies are new to me. I have to confess that I'm really excited to see ZSoD. Based on what you told me and what I read off the blurb when I searched for it online, it's almost like that movie was made for me!_

_I'm a HUGE fan of zombie movies, but my heart belongs to shark films. The fact that there's this really beautiful animal that's nothing more than a killing machine just blows my mind, you know?_

_Anyway, I just wanted to drop a quick note to thank you. I'm definitely showing 'A Watery Grave' and 'They Awaken' since I found them at a local Wal-Mart (for about 5 bucks each!) Already placed an order with Amazon for 'Shark Swarm 2'; it should get here in time for the bachelor party._

_ZSoD, however, remains most elusive.There weren't any available copies anywhere (not even on eBay). I looked around elsewhere but the sites looked very, very sketchy. If it wasn't for the fact that it's listed on IMDB, I'd thought you were pulling my leg about it. You sure you won't lend me your copy? I promise you I'll take care of it. *pleads*_

_See you on the flipside._

_ZombieUnicorn81,_

_P.S.: I'm not offended that you thought I was a dude (since I *am* one). But I'm sorta annoyed that you won't help a fellow horror fan with what, according to you and half of the internet, is, like, the BEST shark movie that's ever existed. :(((_

 

Frank thought about for a few minutes before typing out his reply:

_Hi,_

_Wow, $5 EACH??? That's such a steal! I had to order my copy of 'They Awaken' through AmazonUK because no one had any copies here in the U.S. :/_

_ZSoD is like a delicate jewel, ZombieUnicorn81, and, as such, it's simply too rare for me to let you borrow it. I can imagine you're a cool dude and it's fairly obvious that you're a total enthusiast of the genre, but delicate jewel > everyone._

_Frankenmoster31_

One cup of coffee, a long walk for Peppers and a shower later, Frank logged back in to Blood 'n' Guts.

_Dear ZombieUnicorn81,_

_I've just realized it was mean to dangle something as awesome as ZSoD in front of you only to snatch it back. Like I told you before, this movie is one my top 10, hell, it's one of my TOP 5 fave movies of all time. I could point the way to some places where you might get it (but the copies from said places are usually very crappy 'cause they're from 3rd generation VHS tapes.) Had you lived close by, we could've done some type of exchange. :|_

_Anyway, I wanted to apologize for shrugging you off. I was the one who pimped that movie to you. Normally, I wouldn't have even bothered mentioning a hard-to-find movie. Your name and your profile got me to thinking that you would really dig that film._

_Sometimes I forget that I can be a total ass. Sorry._

_Frank._

*****

Two days later, he got a delivery from UPS. When he opened the medium-sized box, he found a note in Jamia's neat writing:

_Frank,_

_I want to apologize. Worm told me what happened at the concert. I had no idea that the Va-Va-Voom wasn't as wheelchair accessible as it seemed._

_Anyway, I was thinking of expanding Skeleton Crew into the record business. I've taken the liberty of sending you a box of demos we've received over the last three months. I've always known you have impeccable taste in music (especially punk rock and hardcore stuff) so I thought we could hire you to give us some much-needed insight into the next big thing._

_Feel free to send the demos back, tell me that I'm crazy, what-have-you. I know you've gone through some very rough times and you're a pretty good writer (thanks for the review, btw, it's gotten way more hits than any other review we have ever posted), but your ear for kickass music is finely-tuned._

_Give me a call at the office or shoot me an email, OK?_

_Hugs, J._

Frank looked at the pile of CDs, feeling more than slightly giddy at the idea of getting paid for listening to music. He waited until he came back from walking Peppers to open up his browser. He hadn't intended to see if ZombieUnicorn81 had replied to his apology. Still, it'd be nice to know if ZombieUnicorn81 (whoever he was) had accepted it.

_Hi, Frank:_

_It's no biggie. I was a little frustrated when I replied to your first message. Had a serious deadline and my computer was throwing fits for no reason at all. Sometimes, I wonder why I even bother with using anti-virus programs. :/_

_I have to say that you were right about suggesting ZSoD regardless of how obscure of a movie it is. My handle is a combination of two things I really like: zombies and unicorns. Yes, people have been given me shit about it before. The implied girlishness of it sets bigots and bullies' teeth on edge, I guess. *shrug*_

_It does suck that you're unwilling to do an exchange face-to-face. Your profile doesn't say where you live other than "U.S.A." I've just moved back to New Jersey after living in NYC for five long years. Followed my brother to the Big Apple with hopes to make it over there. It took me half a decade to realize that I could do my job from pretty much anywhere. Especially nowadays that everyone has computers and all that._

_Feels great. Being back at home, I mean._

_Wow, sorry, I didn't mean to spill my life story. Just wanted to give you an idea of why I had reacted the way I did._

_Since you used your real name, I'm gonna sign with mine,_

_Mikey._

_P.S.: It's really a shame that you won't trade via the mail. I have a really good copy of Sergio Capello's 'Frankenstein' (the 1967 version) that I think you'd like. This assumption's based on your name, of course. ;)_

Frank shook his head because the idea of this Mikey dude living anywhere near him was too much of a coincidence. He looked at Peppers. "What do you think, girl? Should I roll the dice and see what I get?"

Peppers stopped gnawing on the chew toy Bob had dropped off for her a few days before. She tilted her head side to side, chew toy still in her mouth, then resumed her gnawing.

"That has to be the least helpful thing you've ever done for me, Peps," Frank said. He put the brakes on Bela and did some of the pressure relieving exercises, leaning to one side and holding for a few minutes before repeating on the opposite one. Rolling his shoulders, he clicked the _reply_ button and started typing:

_Hello, Mikey:_

_Listen, dude, you might think this is weird or stalker-y or creepy or whatever. I had to do a double take when I got your last PM because I *do* live in Jersey. Belleville to be exact. Have never moved away, never felt the urge to, I guess. Even with all the fucked up sides to it, I love this state with all of my heart._

_ANYWAY, depending on *where* you live, I could be possibly, maybe, be talked into letting you borrow my super awesome copy of ZSoD if you lend me your copy of Capello's 'Frankenstein'. I've heard about it but missed out on last year's show for that Italian cinema retrospective they do every year at the Garden Theater. Was sick as hell, too sick to even see straight, let alone drive my phlegmy ass over to the Garden. I've been plenty sick in my life, but never have I ever regretted having the lungs of woe like I did last year._

_What kind of writing do you do? I'm something of a bookworm (a habit created from being sick as often as I've been--especially when I was in high school). Most of the stuff I read is modern horror, fantasy (mostly classic, though I'll proudly declare my love for all things Harry Potter given half a chance) and short stories of any genre. Maybe I've read something by you? *tries not to die of curiosity*_

_Let me know where you are at. Maybe your brother's "epic" bachelor's party can be saved. :P_

_XoXo,_

_Frank_

Mikey must have been having a slow day because his PM came not even 30 minutes after Frank sent his:

_Dude, Belleville! Srlsy? Man, this is one tiny, tiny world. I fucking live in Belleville, too (for reals!). Went to school all the way through high school. Man, we probably sat in the same classes or whatever. How funny!_

_So, it looks like this exchange is going to happen. Woo-hoo! You tell me when and where and I'll be there. :)_

_Mikey_

_P.S.: I *still* can't believe this._

_P.P.S: I write the Zombie Fantastica comic series for Vertigo. It's the story of a zombie dude trying to unlock the mystery behind his existence after a nuclear disaster. I've also written a few one-shots--including Batman and my brother's on-going series (Killljoys A-Go-Go.)_

Frank had heard of _Batman_ of course, but he'd stopped reading comics sometime after high school. That's what the internet was for, though, to give him all the answers. He soon went from "cool" to "super impressed" after reading blogs about both titles. The sucky part was that there were no pictures of Mikey anywhere. He had found a few of Gerard, Mikey's brother, a cute, pale guy with crazy hair and an apparent thing for jackets. Would there be any similarities between Mikey and his brother? Feeling a twinge of guilt for having shallow thoughts about his new online friend, Frank closed his laptop and settled in for the night.

He spent the rest of the week listening to demos (some great, the majority scarily bad) and exchanging PMs with Mikey. Each message ranged from their shared love of horror films to having very serious opinions about music (though Mikey's tastes leaned to Brit pop, he respected the hardcore stuff. He even managed to surprise Frank by telling him about some shows Frank had missed when he was at the Christie Institute.) Despite the fact that he did his best to ignore it, Frank's interest in one Mikey Way grew at a steady pace.

*****

Ray called Frank on Tuesday afternoon to tell him he was running late because of a flat tire. Still riding high on the good vibes from talking to Mikey, Frank waved Ray's concerns off with an "eh, you'll get here when you'll get here." He hung up the phone and whistled for Peppers.

"Stay," he said, signaling with his right hand, and waited until Peppers settled down. He put his right foot on the floor followed by the other one, then tilted his body to his right side with his arm stretched out and let gravity take care of the rest. Falling to the floor and getting back on the chair was one of the first things that Greta, his occupational therarpist, had taught him. Once on the floor, he called Peppers to him and played catch with her until he heard Ray's knock.

He wiped his hands on his jeans, sat back on his chair and wheeled himself to the front door, swinging it open and holding his hands up. "Gotta wash 'em. Was playing with Peppers. I know you're a cool guy, but dog slobber is one of the least sexy things I can think of."

"Agreed," Ray said. "Go on, I'll wait for you."

"So," Frank said when he returned. "I've been thinking about what we did last time."

"Uh-huh."

"It was great! I would've never imagined someone playing with my nipples would get me so revved up, you know?" Frank scratched the back of his neck.

"That makes sense," Ray said, sitting down on the living room sofa. "Nipple-play is something that's usually associated with women's breasts. Or, in some cases, kink scenes for any gender. Everyone has nipples."

Frank nodded. "I'd be up to doing some more exploring, um, later. But I was wondering if we could do something with, like, some sex positions?"

Ray raised an eyebrow. "Thinking ahead? Could there be a possible Romeo in the horizon?" He shrugged when Frank raised an eyebrow. "I read people for a living, Frank. You've got this look in your eyes like you're adding to your bag of tricks."

"Eh, I met some dude online. It's not as if we're going to end up in bed or anything. Hell, I don't even know if he likes men! Anyway, it got me thinking about what I could do with a guy. Half my body is in permanent slumber. That doesn't mean that I can't be, like, an active participant in sex, right?"

"I agree. Like all things, when it comes to living with a disability, sex is slightly different. You have to keep in mind, though, that all sex--even the one that happens between people without disabilities--is different. People see a man and a woman together and they assume that they only have penis-in-vagina, missionary position sex. Behind closed doors, though, the woman might tie the man up with rope or maybe they enjoy mutual masturbation or even non-sexual kink scenarios. Everything sexual begins and ends here," Ray said, pointing at his head.

"Huh," Frank said, feeling like the least eloquent person on the face of the planet. "I guess that's what everyone assumes because no one really talks about how weird 'normal' sex is."

"Something like that, yes," Ray said. He placed a hand on Frank's shoulder, his fingers curling over in a quick grip. "How about less theory and more practice, hmm?"

"I'm game if you are," Frank replied.

"Great," Ray said, hoisting his backpack. "I've brought supplies."

Frank wiggled his eyebrows, the mystery of the content of Ray's backpack giving him a thrill of excitement as he left for his bedroom.

*****

Ray licked his lips, closing the door behind him and then placing his backpack on the bed. Eyes shiny, he approached Frank, got on his knees and slid his hands over Frank's arms. "I want to show you what you can do. That you _can_ bring pleasure to someone." He leaned over and slid his tongue on Frank's neck, right at the part where it meets his shoulder.

Frank closed his eyes, heady with the sensation of Ray giving him playful bites interspersed with sucking. "Hic--hickeys are sexy."

" _You're sexy_ ," Ray mumbled as he made his way from Frank's neck to the edge of his jaw. "It's going to be so good, Frank."

"Nghah!" was the most Frank could say before Ray held on to him and gave him kiss after kiss, each one hotter and fiercer than the last. The scratch of Ray's stubble was driving Frank crazy. He felt plenty light-headed when they stopped.

Ray gave him a lazy smile as he stood up and started to take off his clothes. "A lot of times, you might think that there are doors that are closed to you when it comes to sex. Therefore, you'll see yourself as a less desirable partner. That's when you have to improvise and build a whole new fucking door if necessary."

Frank tried to pay attention to Ray's words, he really, really did. However, all of his concentration went to how hot Ray was. The way his arms hinted at the strength beneath them, the softness of his tiny belly, his powerful thighs and his cock. Starting to jut forward, Ray's cock was thick, a dark red flush at the head and two veins running on the sides. It was beautiful.

"Nice view, huh?" Ray said, shaking Frank out of his open ogling. He reached over to his backpack, his cock bobbing up and down with every movement, and opened it. Reaching inside, he took out a nicely-sized, realistic-looking dildo. "I think you're familiar with this," he said, winking at Frank after he took out a bottle of lube.

Pushing Bela's brake after he had gotten closer to the bed, Frank picked up the lube, pouring some on his right hand. Ray had placed two pillows underneath himself and gotten on all fours, facing away from Frank. Rubbing his hand until he thought the lube had warmed up, Frank held his breath as he reached out toward Ray. The anticipation of what he, what _they_ were about to do was a kind of delicious torture. He exhaled, slowly, as he cupped Ray's ass with his dry hand. 

He grabbed Ray's left butt cheek, pushing it to the side until he could see Ray's asshole. Using his forefinger and ring fingers, he started to rub circles around Ray's hole, occasionally pressing down as if if he was going to push them in. "You're cool?"

Ray's curls bounced as he nodded. He exhaled and dropped his arms, curving his spine until his butt was on Frank's eyeline. "Hands are just as important as cocks. So are fingers. Wonderful, wicked things," he purred.

Frank kept on rubbing the whorl of Ray's asshole with one hand while picking up the bottle of lube once more and opening it with the other. He wanted to take his time, see if he could rev Ray up before bringing the dildo into play. Once both hands were slicked, he alternated sliding his thumbs over Ray's hole again and again, enjoying the way the muscles on Ray's back rippled. "It's nice, yeah?

"Very," Ray huffed, gasping when Frank slid two fingers into him. "Yes. This. All of that you're doing to me. Good. Hot."

It was nice to see Ray incoherent. Still, Frank thought he could take him farther and so he dropped his free hand down to Ray's balls, caressing them for a few beats. Ray keened when Frank pulled his fingers back and then thrust them in, pressing on the hard nub inside. Frank licked his lips, eyes darting to the dildo. "There you go."

Ray pushed back. "'m ready," he said, panting after Frank added more lube and a third finger.

"I know you are," Frank replied. He swallowed hard, staring at the smooth way his fingers slid in and out of Ray's hole, committing everything to memory: how willingly Ray opened up to him, how tight he was around Frank's fingers and the combined sound of Ray's hushed "good, good"s with the wetter ( _dirtier_ ) ones from fingering Ray.

Keeping his eyes on Ray, he felt around the bed with his other hand until he was able to gather both the lube and the dildo. He bent forward, biting Ray's right asscheek hard enough to make Ray jump. "Sorry," he said, unapologetically, before kissing the hurt and leaning back as he slid his fingers out one last time.

"Dude, you're killing me here," Ray said, twisting his neck until he could look at Frank over his shoulder. "Can't fucking wait to feel you."

Frank wasn't sure if it was the mellow tone in Ray's words or remembering how good it'd felt to touch someone and have them respond. The weight of Ray's words fell on Frank, encouraging and passionate. He nodded at Ray and picked up the toy, pouring a lot of slick on it. "Gonna fuck you now," he said, his voice scratchy, as he started to push the head of the dildo against Ray's hole.

Ray groaned low and half-breathless. The ends of his curls had grown damp with the sweat from his back. "Yes. Give me all of _you_ ," he said in between huffs. "So big, so good."

Heart pounding in his chest hard enough to feel it all the way to the top of his head, Frank worked the rest of the dildo in, waited a moment to let Ray adjust and then, pulled most of it out.

Seeing Ray build a counter-rhythm to Frank's continuous pushing and pulling, the sounds--words mashed up until they were a string of vowels--that were coming out of his mouth pushed Frank into a trance-like state. Every time he caught a glimpse of the dildo nearly disappearing inside Ray, a feeling of "fuck, yeah, that's my _cock_ " surged inside him. _It felt like his mind was hard._ A drop of sweat almost made it to his eye. He wiped his forehead with the back of his free hand, then leaned over and held on to Ray's heavy and hot cock. "I want you to come for me. Can you do that?"

Ray slid forward into Frank's sure grip and then back into the dildo. "Watch me," he said.

Frank liked the little edge of 'fuck you' in Ray's tone. He rewarded him by rubbing the underside of his cock, using Ray's own pre-come and the lube on his hand to make his movements smooth as fuck. "Yeah, that's it," he said through gritted teeth when Ray fucked his hand, sucking in his breath whenever he pulled back.

"I'm go--gonna," Ray hissed, his entire body shaking as he spilled all over Frank's hand. He collapsed onto the pillows, still trying to catch his breath.

"Damn," Frank said as he pulled the toy out of Ray. He took off his t-shirt, wiped his hands on it and got on his bed, curling around Ray, not caring about the wet spot underneath both of them. He closed his eyes, enjoying how Ray's sweaty back felt against his own chest and the satisfaction of having taken Ray across the finish line.

"Cool. You were cool," Ray said, turning over with care and pulling Frank to him. "Whoever your dude is, he's going to be one lucky son of a bitch."

"You think so, huh?" Not that there was going to be anyone sharing Frank's bed any time soon.

"Yup. I'm on the verge of passing out over here," Ray answered. "Mind if I take a shower once my body stops feeling like jelly?"

"Sure." Frank rubbed his nose against Ray's shoulder, reveling in the way Ray chuckled when Frank went for a quick nibble.

*****

"So..." Ray said, pocketing his fee and then sitting on the living room sofa half an hour later, "how are you feeling?"

Frank made a confused face. "You're kidding, right? Because, right now, my answer is fucking awesome, dude." He splayed his hands in front of him, moving them animatedly. "I liked having control over the how and the when you were going to, um, come."

Ray nodded. "I think you needed a reminder that you can be a good lover. Your SCI might change the way you approach sexual situations, but not the goal. I know you're interested in learning about positions and such. We can go over a few now."

"Well, if I knew this was going to be show and tell, I wouldn't have let you get cleaned up and out of my bed."

Ray rolled his eyes and took out his iPad out of his bag, opening up a couple of files. He flipped the tablet until it was facing Frank, zooming in on a photo that had many examples of sex with someone on a wheelchair. "I'll email you a copy of this before I leave. First, let's go through the different arrangements and talk a little about the pros and cons of each one, cool?"

Frank hmmed, eyes focused on what Ray was showing him. "Huh, whoever I'm with will have to be a Cirque du Soleil freak if we want to try out number 5," he said, unsure of how he could both give head and hold a dude upside-down.

"Ah, that one involves stretching. Lots of it. I mean, before you flip him up. Once everyone's muscles are warmed up, the rest is a matter of synchronicity. " Ray winked and started his presentation.

*****

"I'll call you, OK?" Ray said as he gathered up his things an hour and a half later. "I'd like you to think about what, if anything, has changed from the first time we met until today. Do you feel you've accomplished any of your goals? Is there anything you want to explore that we haven't worked on? How are you today in relation to before we started our sessions?" Ray put up his hands. "Yes, I know it's a lot, Frank. You have to remember that this whole thing is about expanding your approaches to sex, getting you connected to your sexual core. You know, aside from the fun stuff. Anyway, we'll talk soon. Bye."

Frank waved at Ray. The glut of everything that had happened that afternoon plus Ray's words getting jumbled up in his mind, thoughts tripping over each other. He wasn't sure he wanted to look at everything at once. At least, not while he was still able to enjoy the last wisps of the afterglow.

Music would help him hold on to the groove without getting too introspective. He picked up a few of the CD cases from the box Jamia had sent. Loud, fast and hopefully listenable, that's exactly what he needed.

Tapping his fingers to the angry notes of Not Without My Socks' demo was good for the first couple of songs, but awesome as the guitar solos were, Frank soon grew bored. He took a quick trip to his bedroom to fish out his laptop from the random debris on his night table and he was soon logging online.

The very first thing that greeted him was a message from Mikey. Their now-weeklong email discussion about Spiderman vs. Batman vs. Superman vs. the Thing had begun to reach ridiculous levels. Frank scoffed some of Mikey's points, getting ready to dismantle whatever passed for logic in Mikey's world. He did a double take when he reached the end of the email:

_Did you know that there's a "one night only" show of Zombi 2 this Thursday at the Garden movie theater? Yup, as in tomorrow._

_I know this is kind of short notice, but maybe we could meet, trade DVDs and catch one of the grossest and greatest zombie flicks all at once? Zombie vs. shark, dude. It's like almost a prequel to ZSoD, yeah? Let me know if you're up for that, 'kay? I can take care of the tix and you'll just pay me whenever._

_Laters,_

_Mikey_

_P.S.: Don't tell me you really have to think about this, Frank. I know you might have some wacky opinions ("Green Lantern would totally whoop Lex Luthor's ass." Yeah, right), but this is one of those once-in-a-lifetime things you'd be a fool to pass up._

Frank stared at the screen, chewing on a thumbnail, weighing Mikey's invitation against not going at all. Meeting face-to-face was something he'd been both wanting to happen while dreading it as soon as he realized both he and Mikey lived in the same city. In a way, he'd been ridiculously hopeful that Mikey would be too busy to ever meet him. He placed his hands on the keyboard and began typing:

_Mikey,_

_Short of an actual zombie armageddon (could totally happen), there's nothing that will keep me from catching Zombi 2 on the big screen. I had no idea that it was screening over here. So thanks for the heads up. What time is the show at? My schedule is pretty flexible to begin with. I hate being late, though, and parking at the Garden can be a real bitch. I can meet you in the lobby._

_One final question: how am I going to recognize you?_

_Frank_

_P.S.: I'm rooting for the zombie because it won't care that the shark will take a bite out of it._

Mikey's reply appeared in Frank's inbox fifteen minutes later:

_Cool! I figured you'd be rarin' to go so I went ahead and got us tickets! Good thing too as they sold out about ten minutes ago._

_Well, I'm about 5'10 (give or take an inch), skinny. I'll be wearing my Dawn of the Dead t-shirt under a hoodie, jeans. Oh, and I also wear glasses. What about you?_

_Mikey_

_P.S.: This is me trying not to be disappointed in you. You should know that the shark will pwn that zombie._

Frank sent Mikey an equally short message describing himself. It wasn't until after he had hit _send_ that he realized he had mentioned everything, from his ink to his shoulder-length brown hair, except for being on a wheelchair.

 _That's a glaring omission, Iero._ Yeah, that sounded like something Brian would say before giving him his patented glare of death. Surely he had told Mikey about it. Confused, he went through every single email and PM, guilt chomping at him once he realized he had never talked about the chair or being paralyzed. That was a little fucked-up.

It was true that he didn't have to tell Mikey anything about it. Not when it was going to be pretty fucking clear to Mikey that Frank couldn't walk as soon as they met. Nevertheless, this whole business of hiding--with the added scent of self-shame--wasn't Frank. He had no way of knowing what Mikey would think or react. The memories of his trip to the grocery store surged forward. Still, it didn't seem fair to spring that on Mikey. He hit reply on Mikey's last email and added one quick note:

_One more way of knowing who I am:_

_Um, this is coming from out of nowhere, but you will be able to pick me out of a line-up because I'll be in a wheelchair. She's pink and her name is Bela._

_Frank_

There. For better or worse, Mikey was going to meet the real Frank Iero. Scars and all.

*****

Most of the next day was uneventful as they come. He wrote a couple of long notes about some of the demos he listened to, walked Peppers and did some of his exercises. Mikey hadn't said anything other than the movie started at 8:30. Frank chose not to take that as a bad sign.

He shaved with care and took his time getting ready, picking an all black ensemble down to his Chuck Taylors to wear. This wasn't a date (much as he would've like it to be). Still, that didn't mean he was going to meet Mikey looking like a slob.

*****

Frank drove to the Garden's three story parking lot. He had managed to get parking on the first floor, giving himself a mental high-five, until he remembered that the actual movie theater was on the second floor. A quick look at the busted elevator had him rolling through the lower lobby of the movie theater. After waiting for the security guard to be distracted, he rolled to the escalator and rode it up, his grip on the handrails as firm as he could make it. Mikey's face, there was no way of mistaking him for anyone else, when Frank wheeled himself off the escalator, was quite priceless.

"Oh, my god, where are my manners?" He extended his right hand out to Frank while putting his phone back in his hoodie pocket. "Hi, I'm Mikey Way, zombie movie aficionado and easily impressionable dude."

"Don't sweat it," Frank said, clasping Mikey's hand and shaking it firmly, his eyes never leaving Mikey's, "Frank Iero, purveyor of obscure zombie shark films and all-around troublemaker."

"Can you even do _that_?" Mikey asked looking at Frank and then the escalator.

"Parking lot elevator was out of service," Frank shrugged, feeling giddy that he had mesmerized Mikey. "I shouldn't have tried, really, but what the hell, right? Like it's my fault that the movie theater is up here?"

Mikey laughed, eyebrows jumping up. "True, true." He was about to say something when a series of buzzes interrupted. "Sorry," he said, taking his phone out of his hoodie pocket. "It's my boss. I'll be right back."

"'S cool. We've got time," Frank said as Mikey turned around and walked a few steps away. He looked around for a grand total of five seconds before giving in to his urge to check out Mikey. Tight jeans showcasing a small butt, bright green hoodie, red t-shirt and glasses, Mikey's style screamed 'hipster' down to the backpack that hung from one of his shoulders. His short blond hair was swept back; Frank had a sudden hankering to run his fingers through it. If only to see if it was as soft as it looked.

Mikey, Frank noted, had very long fingers. For a moment, Frank allowed himself to imagine sucking on them before he focused on Mikey's seemingly endless legs. He'd been in the middle of wondering just how Mikey had poured himself into them when he was taken out of his daydreaming by Mikey ending his call.

"Dude, so sorry about that. Boss wanted to check out last minute details, had totally forgotten she was 3 hours behind us. Uh, she's in L.A. right now."

"Hey, Mikes, they don’t have any Dr. Pepper so I got you a Coke Zero. Um, hello?" A cute guy that Frank recognized as Mikey's brother walked up to them, holding two large popcorns and two sodas. He was wearing a blue poncho straight out of _Star Wars_ that covered him down to his black jeans.

Frank's initial instinct was to stop thinking naughty thoughts about Mikey and maybe wheel himself into a corner. Mikey's brother stood there, one hip cocked to the side, giving off vibes, jealousy or protectiveness, Frank wasn't sure which. His hair was bright red.

Mikey rolled his eyes and quirked an eyebrow. "Thanks, Gee. Frank, this is my brother Gerard, he's the one I'm throwing the bachelor party for. Gee, this is Frank, the dude who was nice enough to meet me so that we could enjoy a movie of zombfied sharks at your party. Play nice."

Just like that, Gerard's demeanor switched from slightly bitchy to cautiously friendly. "Oh, yeah, you're Mikey's internet friend. Hi. I'd shake your hand, but I'm holding half of the concession stand."

"He's such a pig, Frank," Mikey said, taking a tub of popcorn, "Sometimes I wonder how it was that he ever got together with Lindsay long enough to get her to marry him."

"That's because we're both artistes and kindred souls," Gerard said petulantly. "Besides, she's agreed to ink the next five issues of your comic." With this, he turned around and headed into the theater where _Zombi 2_ would be shown.

Frank opened his mouth when Mikey interrupted him.

"Yes, he just threw a hissy fit at you but that's only because he's less than three weeks from getting married and he's nervous as hell. Before you ask me anything else, I really think you're cute and will definitely snuggle with you while we watch zombies rotting on the screen." Mikey arched an eyebrow, his lips curving into a mischievous smile.

Frank nodded and took Mikey's hand back, squeezing it quickly before dropping it. "Next time," he said as they started making their way to the theater, "let's go out without a chaperone."

"Good luck with that," Mikey said. "Gee is the one who got me into appreciating the intricacies of the zombie genre."

"Ah, so he's the one I have to thank for your interest on brain-hungry sharks, hmm? Remind me to thank him."

"I will," Mikey answered. "Let go to our seats. Show's starting soon and I heard that there are going to be some killer previews. We can, like, maybe have a coffee after the show? Exchange DVDs and shoot the breeze. What do you say?"

"Sounds cool. Um, I'll follow you." He waited for Mikey's nod and took a calming breath, rolling behind Mikey, trying his hardest not to think about what would happen after the movie was over.

*****

"Oh, man, that was something else!" Mikey said before covering his mouth. "I thought I was going to throw up when they did the close-up of the eye getting gouged out."

"Definitely gross," Gerard said absentmindedly, squinting at his cellphone screen.

"I don't think I want to eat anything that looks remotely like casserole," Frank added as they exited the theater.

"I hear you," Mikey said, stopping when they reached the escalators. He turned his head toward Frank. "Um..."

People kept walking around them. Frank tilted his head up and winked. "You think going up was impressive? Check this out." He positioned his wheelchair so that he was facing backwards and rolled on the first step, once again grabbing the handrails and leaning his torso forward to compensate for his center of gravity. "Come on, coffee awaits!" he said to Mikey while everyone stared at him like he had pulled out an elephant out of his backpack.

"Dude!" Mikey said, stepping a few seconds later. "How did you--?

"The miracle of YouTube. Watched a few videos, got curious to see if I could do this too." Frank shot a sly smile at Mikey and got ready to roll off the escalators as gracefully as he possibly could. Once on firm ground, he slid to the side, waiting for Mikey and Gerard to catch up to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the security guard approaching and got ready to apologize.

"Young man, you could've taken the elevator," the security guy said.

"It's broken," Frank said, hoping the guard would leave it at that. "My friend," he said, pointing at a still-distracted Gerard, "was in a hurry to leave."

The security guard shook his head. "Hope that next time you are more careful and use the elevators. They are there for a reason."

"Will do, sir," Mikey piped in, grabbing Gerard's arm and herding him and Frank out of the theater.

They burst out laughing when they got to the parking lot. "Oh, man, I'm sorry I blamed you, it's just that you looked so worried," Frank said, pointing at Gerard.

"Erm, yeah, yeah, that's fine," Gerard said. "Oh, crap."

Mikey put his hand on Gerard's shoulder. "Something's wrong?"

Gerard tapped for a couple of seconds before putting his phone away. "Lindsey's upset about something that happened at work. I better go see what's up. Gonna head over to her apartment. Mikey? You want me to drop you off somewhere?"

Mikey--Frank happily observed--made a face. "Uh. Yeah, I--"

"I can give him a ride home," Frank said, ignoring how hot his face felt right then and there.

"Are you sure?" Gerard stared at Frank, probably waiting for Frank to say "gotcha!".

"Yup. I drove myself here. Got a full tank and a valid license. Mikey and I can go have coffee, you can take care of your lady," Frank said, shaking his keys in front of him for emphasis. He knew that was a little of a dick move, but Gerard's disbelief annoyed the hell out of him. Apparently, the idea of a paralyzed guy driving was on the same level as the tooth fairy.

"You see? It's all under control," Mikey said, adding a raised eyebrow. "I've got my keys. Give my best to my soon-to-be sister-in-law."

"OK," Gerard said before giving Mikey a hug and shaking hands with Frank. "We'll talk later. Have fun. Nice to meet you, Frank."

Frank and Mikey stared at Gerard as he crossed the street, the ends of his poncho flapping on the wind like a mini-cape. "Ready for coffee?"

"Always," Mikey answered, hitching his backpack and keeping an easy pace with Frank.

*****

Frank drove them past a Starbucks. He chuckled after Mikey made a sad noise. "I hear you," he said, glancing over to Mikey, "I'm all for tasty corporate coffee. Problem with that store is that it's closing sometime in the next five minutes. We're going to the one over on Franklin Avenue. That one's open until midnight."

"Are you king of the coffee run?" Mikey said, taking off his glasses and wiping them with the hem of his t-shirt.

"You betcha. I have a shiny crown and everything," Frank replied, turning left at the corner. "So how do you go from growing up in Belleville to writing comics for a living?"

"Think we have enough time for that?"

"It's a twenty-five minute drive to the next Starbucks. You tell me."

"OK," Mikey said, leaning back, "The first thing you have to know about me is that I've heard about comics all of my life. My brother got me into them before I even learned to talk..."

Normally, Frank would've been making "I'm listening" sounds, waiting for the other person to stop talking so that he could throw in an anecdote, a few clever words or a stray thought or two. Mikey, however, proved to be a great storyteller. Between the misadventures of Mikey and Gerard's failed ouija board seances and Mikey's teenage fascination with all things Disney, Frank ended up completely taken by his stories. They got to Starbucks in no time at all.

"Go ahead," Frank said after parking his car in one of the assigned handicapped spots. "I gotta put Bela back together." He unlocked the doors and waited for Mikey to get out.

"Sure," Mikey said, undoing his seatbelt. "I'll make the line, you get us a table. What do you want?"

Frank tutted at Mikey. "What? No, man. I offered. Give me a minute."

"Dude, it's cool," Mikey said, placing his left hand on Frank's shoulder and returning a look that said _don't be a doofus_. "I've got it covered."

"In that case," Frank replied, "Grande Soy Latte with lots of sugar." Maybe he could take an extra minute to get his nicotine fix. 

"Ah, that's, like, beginner's coffee," Mikey said, his smile softening the snarky comment. "Mine will take at least twice as long to make. This late in the evening, I want something with a kick, you know? Do your thing, I'll take care of our caffeinated ambrosia and then we can sit down and talk, yeah?"

Seeing Mikey be so assertive made Frank pay attention. "You're one of those people who are very serious about coffee aren't you?"

"It's not the only thing, I'm serious about," Mikey said, letting go of Frank and stepping out of the car in one graceful move.

*****

Half a cigarette later, Frank waited at their table while Mikey placed an order long enough to include a lot of hand gestures. He looked on, amused at the clerk's increasingly worried face as Mikey finished ordering.

Meeting Mikey had gone well so far. Back at the movie theater, Gerard had sat a few rows ahead of them, seemingly happy to give Frank and Mikey space (or, at least, a semblance of it.) Mikey didn't talk much, most of his attention on the horror on-screen, but when he did, his comments were funny. Frank made a few remarks of his own, emboldened by the semi-darkness of the theater to lean close enough to Mikey to get a whiff of the mild cologne he was wearing. By the time the end credits had begun rolling, Mikey was holding hands with Frank, rubbing his thumb to a steady beat.

"Dude, next time, I'm paying. Seriously," Frank said when Mikey got to their table.

"My job gave me a Starbucks card with an impressive balance after I turned in my first couple of expense reports. I spend a lot of money here," Mikey said with a shrug, sitting next to him instead of across and sliding Frank's latte to him. "What can I say? Coffee is to me what air is to other people."

"That's a little scary," Frank admitted. "You don't sleep much, do you?"

"Depends. Sometimes my head gets too cluttered and my insomnia kicks in. Anyway, you pulled some awesome tricks back at the theater."

"I did, didn't I?" Frank smiled at Mikey, pushing against the uneasiness that started to seep into the conversation. "I'm a man of many talents."

"I'm mentioning that because, uh, of the wheelchair thing." Mikey took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "You never talked about it until, like, yesterday."

Frank made a so-so gesture with his hands. He didn't want to make a big deal of it. "It never came up. Like, when we were talking online and shit."

"Ah," Mikey said, putting his glasses back on, "Sorry. I don't want to put you on the spot."

Frank started to feel like he was getting a tame version of the brush-off. He held back a sigh and put his hands around his coffee. "It's cool. I get it. This," he said, waving a hand around him, "is not your scene. Friends, then?"

Mikey took a sip of his drink and pushed his glasses up. "Huh?"

"You're letting me down gently or whatever that's called, right?" Frank stared back at Mikey, probably mimicking the expression of puzzlement on Mikey's face. "I mean. I... Huh, now I'm confused."

"Yeah, that's two of us. I was making an observation, that's all. Don't know if you've noticed, but I'm interested in you. There was actual evidence of hand-holding, if I'm not mistaken." Mikey raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"There was." Frank scratched the back of his neck, waiting for his embarrassment to subside. "This is all new to me. Um, kinda? I--I haven't dated anyone since before the accident. You're very cool and I would like to see what could happen between us."

"Ditto," Mikey said, giving Frank a side smile that had a naughty oomph to it.

"I, ah, hope I don't freak you out or seem like I'm looking way ahead into the future, but there are things that could be on the table and some that definitely aren't. Um, like, if things get serious." He laced his fingers, stealing glances to Mikey while wondering if he had crossed the line into 'possibly-weird-as-a-motherfucker' territory.

Mikey nodded. "Is this my cue to run screaming into the night? Because I can tell you that's not going to happen. Well, unless you give me a really good reason."

Frank lifted his head, focusing on Mikey's words instead of what he was feeling. "I was, um, I was talking about sex. In case you were wondering."

"You're on a wheelchair," Mikey said matter-of-factly. "Yeah, I can see that. If or, better said, _when_ we have sex, things will be different. So what? You might have really bizarre opinions about X-men," he squinted at Frank, "Nightcrawler will always be the coolest one out of that crew, dude. And you might not like Blur or Glasvegas, which, if you don't mind me saying this, is something of a sacrilege. But I think. No, I _know_ that dating you is going to be very cool. So don't knock yourself down, Frank. You're a really good catch."

Had he been thinking clearly (instead of being swept up by Mikey's enthusiasm), Frank might've stopped himself from leaning over to Mikey, tilting his head slightly as he got near, and pressing his lips against Mikey's. PDAs weren't really Frank's style and there were plenty of people out there who weren't cool with seeing two dudes kissing. But, at that moment, Frank _didn't care_.

Because the feeling of Mikey's slightly chapped lips against his and the quiet whimper he made when he felt Mikey's hands on the sides of his face were absolutely intoxicating. After a while, he pulled back, a happy dizziness easing the discomfort of the furious blush all over his face. Not that Mikey looked any more composed: his eyes had grown shiny; his smile wide enough to show what Frank affectionately thought of as Mikey's 'vampire' teeth.

Satisfied that he had gotten Mikey in such a state, Frank picked up his cup, drained the rest of his coffee and said "Oh, and for the record? Wolverine will always be number one in my book."

Mikey rolled his neck, showing off pale skin (with a hint of stubble) that got Frank wondering what it'd be like to lick it, and answered a simple "nah."

*****

Frank woke up to Peppers running around in a circle--a normal, if annoying occurrence. "Settle down, girl," he mumbled into his pillow. Last night's outing--including both the the conversation he had with Mikey as well as the kissing--had taken a lot out of Frank. They had talked long enough to be the only customers left around closing time and had spent another fifteen minutes necking in the car when Frank drove Mikey home.

It'd been so long since he had connected with someone outside of the Institute. He had sort of forgotten how nice it could feel to be out in the world.

He let one of his hands crawl up to Peppers, gently turning her over until her belly was within reach, and began scratching her. His thoughts turned toward Ray and his last conversation with him. He had gotten the impression that it was time to end his sessions with him. Were two tumbles in bed and a handful of lengthy discussions with Ray all that he needed to get a better sense of who he was? He had been aware of how finite his time with Ray was going to be before everything started and it wasn't as if he was falling for him. Ray was a solid guy, someone whose sense of self was well-defined and strong. Frank had a feeling that Ray would put a stop to things if anything turned sour or uncomfortable.

However, he couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps it was time to let go. Impulsive by nature, at least when it came to emotional matters, Frank finished rubbing Peppers' belly with a flourish before searching for his phone on top of his nightstand. Ignoring Peppers' whuff against his side, he pushed himself into a seated position and, phone in hand, gave himself a few seconds to understand what he was about to do.

*****

The line rang a couple of times before Ray picked up. "Hello, this is Ray."

"Hey," Frank said roughly. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Morning."

"Frank! I hadn't expected to hear from you so soon. Did we have an appointment? Because I don't see anything in my agenda..."

Peppers pushed her head under his left hand and Frank gave in, scratching her behind her ears in a slow pattern. "Um, no? I just, um, I wanted to see if we could meet today?" He hated how tentative he sounded.

Ray hmmed. "Well, I have some errands to run, but I could meet you at your place around five?"

Inwardly grateful that Ray was the kind of person to go with the flow, Frank nodded. "Yeah. That's cool."

"Great, see you then."

"Bye," Frank said, feeling like the biggest heel this side of the Atlantic.

*****

Ray showed up on time, dressed casually, and greeted Frank with a big smile. "I called Brian after I talked to you and he said your next appointment with him isn't until next Tuesday. So allow me to be a little curious as to why you're seeing me twice this week."

Frank cracked his knuckles and waited until Ray was sitting down to start talking. "I've been thinking--"

"Mmhmm?"

"We've done some things. Some really cool things and have talked about them and there's been nakedness..."

"But?"

Frank looked up from his hands to Ray's face, relieved at his mellow gaze. "But, as rad as this thing with you has been, I'm considering that it's time to stop."

Ray quirked an eyebrow. "Is this because of your new guy?"

Frank really wanted to say it wasn't. But that would be lying--even if it wasn't entirely true. "A little. I mean, we've met and he's cool and there's a possibility of _things_ happening. That's not all of it, though. Being with you has gotten me to realize that I'm more than this," he said, touching his knees. This had to be the weirdest breakup he had ever gone through.

"It's cool," Ray said after giving him another one of his sunny grins. "I'm in total agreement with you. In a way, I had been expecting it, really."

"Why?" Frank frowned. "Because I was so beyond help?"

Ray shook his head, his curls bouncing. "No. I just always thought that your issues would resolve themselves without the need for some heavy-duty therapy."

"Oh, so does that mean that you were never going to tie me up and spank me?" Frank stuck out his tongue.

This would be the first and last time he would ever see Ray rolling his eyes at him. "Eh, I charge extra for kinky sessions. Anyway, all you needed was a simple reminder that it's OK to be a sexual being. The chair doesn't tell anyone who you are. Your penis doesn't dictate what you can and cannot do in bed. I had hoped that our sessions would rattle your mind--in a good way, of course. It's great to see you realizing all of that."

"Well, now that our professional 'thing' is over and done with, I can admit that I'll miss getting nookie from you." Frank wiggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

Ray squinted at Frank (who shrugged before busting out with giggles.) "I'm sure that you can apply your lessons to your mystery man. Whoever he is."

"Michael," Frank said, enjoying the flip in his stomach when he said the name. "Actually, his name is Michael but he goes by Mikey."

"Hmm, that sounds familiar," Ray said after considering for a second or two. "Well, this is goodbye, Frank."

"Wham, bam and sayonara, Ray." He followed Ray as the latter made his way to the front door. "Can I--I mean, is it OK if we, like, hang out in a non-professional/non-nookie way? You're pretty cool and I'd love to jam with you sometime in the future."

Ray looked at the floor, then turned his eyes to Frank. "We have to run this by Brian. I'm going to talk to him about the ending of your sessions with me. Then, we'll be in what you'd call a "cooling off period". But, yeah, after that, I'm down for talking with you about killer riffs and stuff. We'll be in touch soon." He crouched next to Frank. "Goodbye for now, dude. Remember that you are a sexy man and whoever this Michael person is--or any other dude you end up in bed with--will be one lucky son a gun, OK?"

Frank took Ray's hand and shook it. "Deal, man. Be seeing you around."

"You betcha," Ray said as he stood up and left the house.

Frank took Peppers for a walk after that. It was long enough that Peppers got tired when they headed home. "Don't ever tell anyone I don't spoil you," he said after picking her up and wheeling the two of them home with Peppers sitting on his lap like she was the goddamn queen of world.

*****

It might've been the fact that he was out of practice or that he didn't believe in trying to appear 'mysterious' with anyone he wanted to potentially date. Hoping he wouldn't come across as needy, Frank waited until after having an early dinner (and watching _Frankenstein_ ) to call Mikey. "Fuck," he said softly when the phone rang long enough to go to voicemail. He wanted to believe he wouldn't ramble too much.

"Hey, Mikey. I was calling you to see how you were doing. Just finished watching the movie and, dude, it was as intense as you said it was going to be. I'm thinking that Peter Jackson got his inspiration for _Braindead_ from this movie. Sick stuff. Good, but yeah, sick. Anyway, give me a call whenever you get a chance. I will--"

A recording came on, cutting him off by asking him if he was satisfied with his message or if he wanted to record a new one. Frank looked at the display, ready to press 1 and get a chance to leave a more coherent message when he lost his grip on the phone and fumbled, dropping it on the floor. "Fucking A!"

Leaning to his side, he scrambled to pick it up only to find out that he had ended the call. He closed his eyes, rubbing the heels of his hands against them, resigned to the embarrassment of having left a crappy voicemail. "Don't even think of saying anything," he grunted at Peppers who was snoring while curled up on the sofa. Letting the disappointment settle on his shoulders, Frank hooked up his phone to his charger and headed to the couch to take a nap.

Peppers snorted when he pushed her to the corner of the sofa before transferring himself onto the cushions. "Sometimes, you have the best ideas, Peps," he said as he dozed off.

*****

The house was completely dark when he woke up. Peppers lay on his chest, legs sprawled out. Frank stretched his arms up and then put Peppers on the floor. "Bathroom, then food and then some more demo listening," he said muzzily as he pushed his body upright and got back on his chair.

He had rolled over to one of the side tables in the living room when he noticed the red light flashing on his cellphone. There were two voicemails from the same number.

"Hi, Frank. I think you've just called me? Hopefully, this is you because you didn't leave your name. Erm, turns out I'm in the City til Sunday. Gee's thinking of doing a one-shot _Killjoys-a-go-go_ crossover with _Zombie Fantastica_ and we had to meet with the artists to see some initial concepts. Blah, blah, blah. It's going to be so cool because--."

Frank made a face at the phone and played the second message.

"Dude, sorry. I can be a motormouth when the topic of comics is on the table. Anyway, this is Mikey. Again. Give me a call whenever you get a chance. Talk to you soon, yeah? Take care, Frank."

Frank pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking as he started to laugh. It was nice to know that he wasn't the only one with the awkward phone skills.

He checked his watch. It was almost 11pm. Rather than calling (it was a little too past a 'normal' hour), he texted Mikey:

_Just got your message. Yup, that was me talking a mile a minute about the movie you lent me. Thanx btw. It was awesome. :)_

Mikey sent a reply almost an hour later:

_had a feeling u were going 2 like it. Wanted 2 watch ZSoD, left ur dvd at home. :( The pay-per-view at my hotel is crappy (my choices: i wanna be your baby mama, armageddon 3 & a movie about some english poet.) 2 bored 2 sleep._

Frank was about to text back, when he decided to call Mikey instead.

"Hello?"

"Dude, you should watch _Armageddon 3_. I hear that they blew up the moon and Mars in that one. Also, hi," Frank said.

"That doesn't make much sense," Mikey said, stepping into the conversation like they'd been talking for hours.

"Neither does the fact that there's a second sequel to the end of the world. According to IMDB, Bruce Willis shows up as a hologram."

"Hmm. I don't know if that's so bad that it becomes awesome or just plain sad," Mikey said.

Frank shrugged. "Probably a mix of both. Anyway, this is what happens when you leave awesome DVDs you've borrowed behind. Though, I really appreciate that you're taking care of Zombie Sharks."

"I don't think I ever thanked you for lending it to me. Been driving everyone crazy today because I've been talking about it so much. Well, everyone but Gee, that is. He's so psyched to watch that movie that he's been sketching sharks all day long. It's probably an unintentional ploy to incorporate them in the crossover or something."

"Wait a minute. Isn't the comic set in the desert? Like, where would the sharks be?"

"I don't have the faintest idea, Frank. Me and Gerard spent most of today trying to figure it out. Logic could be applied, but it would have to be done carefully and skillfully."

"Is that so?" Frank bit his lip before continuing. "You like to take your time with things? I mean, just so you know, that's a detail I'm going to file for later."

Mikey snorted. "The end results of being patient and through more than make up for any frustrations in wanting things to be quick--"

"--and dirty?" Frank snickered. This was the most ridiculous attempt at flirting that he'd ever made. Thankfully, Mikey was game.

"Something like that," Mikey said, his tone turning very friendly. "Nice to know where your mind lives."

"You're welcome," Frank replied, making a face at his own dorkiness. "So," he said, holding on to the flash of courage that ran through him, "you said on your voicemail that you'll be back Sunday?"

"Yeah. I should be home by, like, noon. Jarrod, a friend of Gee's, is giving us a ride to Belleville."

"I was wondering if you'd be up to, um, hang out? In the afternoon or at night. Either one is cool." He bit on his bottom lip, willing himself not to backpedal as the silence stretched for a couple of seconds.

"Uh, yes. That'd be--I'm good for late afternoon/early evening. Like around 7? Is there anything you want do in particular?" Mikey's voice--Frank noticed--got a little shaky at the end.

"Um--" Frank made a face. He hadn't thought farther than asking Mikey out. "There's this place I know that you might like. And, um, coffee afterwards, of course."

"Oh, OK." Mikey coughed.

Frank sighed. Where was this awkwardness coming from? He put his phone against his chest and shook his head for a couple of seconds. "Listen," he said when he got back on the line, "before this random weirdness becomes as massive as the Blob, I want it to be clear that I _am_ asking you out on a date. I have intentions." There. That was plain enough.

The last thing he'd expected was to hear Mikey laughing. "Yeah, no. I got that, dude. I guess you just caught me by surprise. For the record, I'm pretty interested in your intentions," he said. "Been wondering if they match up to mine."

It was Frank's turn to crack up. "Glad to know that my momentary lack of skills didn't scare you off."

"I did tell you I thought you were cute, didn't I? Also, there was some kissing last time I saw you?" Mikey yawned. "Sorry, long day is finally catching up to me."

"Oh, man, I'm sorry. I didn't notice it was past midnight. Let me get going," Frank said apologetically.

"Was nice talking to you. I'll see you on Sunday, all right?"

"It's a date," Frank said, smiling. "Good night, Mikey."

"Night, Frank."

*****

The weekend flew by. Frank managed to send the rest of the demos to Jamia, wrote a couple of reviews for Skeleton Crew's book blog and tried to come up with a good idea for his upcoming date with Mikey.

By the time Saturday afternoon came around, Frank had grown tired of spending all of his time at his house. He was tidying up his bedroom when the card for Pineapple Tattoos fell to the floor.

"Well, now," Frank said after picking it up. He studied the card, remembering Jepha's invitation and thought that it was time to close a chapter of his life.

*****

Pineapple Tattoos was on the outskirts of Belleville. Frank parked his car and psyched himself up for his soon-to-be-inked design. Remind himself that Jepha had seem cool, Frank got his wheels ready. There was a curvy woman with short pigtails at the counter.

"Hi!" she said brightly. "May I help you?"

Frank couldn't help but smile back. "Um, I know Jepha? He told me I could drop by anytime if I wanted something done?" He hated sounding uncertain. It would have been much better if he had made an appointment.

"So, you don't have an appointment?"

"Um, no." Frank looked around the shop. There didn't seem to be anyone else other than the woman and himself. "I can return another day. After making an appointment, I mean."

"Oh, no worries. Travie is doing a coffee run. He doesn't have anything scheduled until," the woman flipped through a book, "8 p.m. I think he could take care of your inking needs. Well, depending on what is it that you want to get inked, of course."

"I don't have a sketch, but I don't think what I have in mind is too complicated," Frank said. "I can wait until he comes back and check with him then, yeah?"

"Sure," the woman said. "Let me get you Travie's portfolio. Tennessee doesn't come in until 7. If what you want is calligraphy and such, she's your man. Well, artist," the woman said after sticking her tongue out. "I'm Kitty. If what you want is a piercing, then you'll be talking to me."

"I'm cool, thanks," Frank said and took the book that Kitty was holding in front of him.

Travie turned out to be the tallest dude Frank had ever met. His skin was as covered in tattoos as Jepha was. A laid back guy with a friendly smile, he sat on a stool and placed a big sketch pad on his lap. "All right, bro, talk to me. What are you looking for?"

"There's this thing--"

"Ah, sorry," Travie said, cutting him off, "Just wanna make clear that I'm not the man for portraits and such. For that, you want Jepha himself. I don't know if he has any appointments, but he'll swing by at some point today. Anyway, continue."

"I was thinking of getting a pair of guns on my back. The muzzles would be crossing over each other."

"OK, OK. I can work with that. Any particular kind of gun? Old school like in a Charles Bronson movie or even older school like the type they use on westerns? Something modern?" Travie put his pencil behind his ear and turned around, bringing up gun images from the computer on the desk behind him.

"Nothing super-specific. Just, you know, something that's detailed enough to look like a handgun."

"All right," Travie said, clicking on several images and sending them to print. "I'm gonna show you a few examples. You pick the one you like best and we can go from there, deal?"

"Yeah, cool."

"Erm, and where do you want it done?"

Frank ignored the way Travie's eyes went over him. It was an assessing look, nothing more. "On my back. Like on the lower part."

"Huh, all right, all right." Travie sorted through the print outs. "I'm going to do a couple of quick sketches and then, you tell me if you dig them or not. You want some coffee, tea, water?"

"I'm OK, thanks," Frank said. He leaned to the side, stretching his muscles while Travie drew guns.

"Any reason for the tattoo?" Travie kept his eyes on the drawings.

Whether it was the smooth trip-hop or Travie's chill vibe, Frank didn't know. Having made the decision to get the guns, he felt relaxed in a way he hadn't been in a long time.

"I'm in this chair because some asshole I don't know ran me over. And, like, for a long time, that kinda ate at me, you know? Everyone kept telling me that I had to look ahead, to let that anger go. But, sometimes, talk is cheap. Because, at the end of the day, no one other than me knows what it felt like to wake up in a hospital and having to relearn tasks I'd mastered years ago. Like, my parents taught me how to put up my pants before I was five years old? The accident--it put me back on square one." He sighed, thinking back at his conversation with Detective Anderson months ago. "It really sucked. Some days I just wanted to break someone's jaw. I--I wanted whoever ran me over to suffer. My mind, it was in a messed up place."

Travie hmmed.

"One night, I think it was the one right before I met with Brendon, the guy who sold me this chair, I was tossing and turning, 'cause the more I thought about it, the angrier I got, right? I started thinking about those vigilante movies and the guns and, you know, revenge. When I finally fell asleep, I had this dream of two guns, side by side, on a table. My hands were on both guns. Sitting across from me was the driver. He didn't have a face, but I knew he was laughing.

Now, the most rational thing would've been for me to shoot the driver. I had two guns, the driver was within range and I had all the time of the world. However, I got up from the table and walked away."

"Damn, that's heavy." Travie shook his head and erased a couple of lines.

"Yeah. And, like, it's not that I got over being angry. Not then, at least. But I couldn't shake the idea of the two guns and being able to make a choice to fucking give in or, like, I don't know, resolve all that mess. So, that's the reason for the image."

"I'm done," Travie said, brushing his pad before turning it over. "I came up with two ideas. This one," he said, pointing at the sketch on the right side of the page, "is like the guns looking fierce 'cause you're _ready_ , you know, against anything that comes for you. Now this other concept is a little simpler. It's all line-drawing but, like, with some spiderweb detail thrown in on the handle. Check them out, tell me what you think. I'm going to clean my station, get it ready in case you pick one." He got up, handing Frank the sketchpad.

Though neither piece was identical to the guns he had dreamed about, each one was perfect on its own way. Usually, he liked tattoos filled in because they looked more classic. However, the "unfinished" guns were closer to representing what Frank had talked about. Decision made, he wheeled over to the counter and waved at Travie. "I'm ready," he yelled over the music.

"All right, man. I'll be there in a second," Travis said as he finished setting up his tattoo kit.

Frank gave him thumbs up. Some five minutes later, he was signing the health form, agreeing on a price and waiting for Travie to do the transfer from sketch to final drawing.

Travie tilted his head. "Normally, you'd be lying face down on the table. It'd be more comfortable for you and whatnot. But I think that I can work on you from the alternate chair."

"OK," Frank said, pushing the brake on Bela before transferring over to something that looked like a modified massage chair.

"Since you've gotten inked before," Travis said as he waited for Frank to get comfortable on the chair, "I know I don't have to tell you much about what it's going to feel like. However, I do need to know at what point do you stop having any kind of sensation. Wouldn't want you to jump up when I'm working, you know?"

Frank nodded. "No, I get it. Um, it's somewhere around my waist. I don't--erm, I don't think I'll feel like, when you start doing the muzzles and shit. I'm pretty sure I can deal with the rest, though."

"Good," Travis said after he did the final placement of the tattoo and checked with Frank about it. "Let me know if something's bothering you, 'kay?"

"Yeah," Frank said, closing his eyes once the whirr of the tattoo gun reached his ears.

The weirdest thing about getting tattooed over and under the injury site was how he would go from feeling the steady bite of the needle (when Travie followed the outline of the guns' handles) to the muted quasi-vibration (once Travie started working on the crossed ends.) What surprised him the most was how little he bled.

"That's normal," Travie said when he covered the tattoo with some kind of breathable tape. "Change the dressing later, clean the site, put some ointment and then just leave it alone. You should be fine in a few days."

"Thank you, man," Frank said after handing Travie a tip. He felt protected yet lighter than he had in a long time.

*****

Frank spent the rest of the day alternating between texting with Mikey (who liked to send him pics of the randomest things), working on another review for Skeleton Crew's book club and trying to figure out where to take Mikey Sunday night.

Once it was clear that everything sounded either lame (there were no good movies out that weekend, ditto for gigs) or lamer (he wasn't going to take Mikey "I would eat my weight in sushi if I could" Way out for pizza), he decided to cook him a meal. Something simple like a veggie lasagna.

Unfortunately for him, that meant having to deal with his mother's questions.

"Why are you calling me about the recipe for Nana's lasagna, Franklin Anthony?"

"I'm hungry?" Frank grimaced. It wouldn't take longer than a minute for his mom to figure out that he had _plans_. "Don't feel like cooking every day, that's all."

"Uh-huh," his mother replied. "Or are you asking because you're trying to woo someone?"

 _Oh, hell no!_ He wasn't going to talk about dating with his mom. "Dunno what you're talking about," he said, aiming for nonchalant.

His mother hmmed. "If you say so, Frankie," she said. "Do you have pen and paper?"

 _Victory!_ "Sure, Ma. I'm ready."

"You have to get everything fresh, you understand?"

"Yes, Ma. No canned tomatoes, no dried basil or any of my 'weird' meat substitute. I get it." Frank looked at his watch and bit back a sigh. At this rate, he'd be cutting it a little too close.

"Fine. Now, when you go to the market, make sure that you get fresh mozzarella and ricotta. Ask for Delia at the deli and tell her that I sent you..."

"All right." Frank wrote _cheese_ and waited til his mom gave up the next ingredient.

*****

Going to supermarket on a Sunday morning was a little intense. What should've taken him half an hour tops, ended up being close to one and a half. Between the delay over there, how long it took to prep and cook the entree and the fact that he wanted to take a quick nap before seeing Mikey, Frank had no time to get nervous about inviting Mikey over.

"You don't mind?" Frank asked Mikey when he called him after waking up from his nap. "I don't know if you're up for that--"

"Give me your address and I'm there," Mikey said.

Frank rattled off directions to his house, the excitement of seeing Mikey making him feel giddy.

"Got it," Mikey said. "Do you need me to bring anything? I'm not, uh, much of a drinker, but I don't want to assume--"

A quick glance at the kitchen clock let Frank know that he had close to an hour to look presentable. He could always buy some time. "Dessert? All I have are Pop Tarts. I don't think they go with the lasagna."

"All right, I'll get us something sweet," Mikey said. "See you in a bit."

Frank hung up the phone and exhaled. He practically zoomed to his closet and picked a nice grey sweater and good pair of jeans. Satisfied, he headed to the bathroom. Nothing like a nice hot shower to leave him feeling mellow.

*****

"I got us strawberry gelato from Tony's," Mikey announced when Frank opened the door.

"Come in," Frank said, taking the container from Mikey's hands and going to the kitchen to put it in the freezer. Mikey stopped short when Peppers yipped from her doggy bed and ran over to him.

By the time Frank had come back to the living room, Mikey was talking to her.

"Oh, you must be Peppers," Mikey said, crouching down and stretching out a hand, letting Peppers sniff him. "You're a cutie," he added when Peppers dropped to her side and showed him her belly.

"You mean she's a brat," Frank replied, doing his damnest not to feel jealous that Mikey was cooing at his dog.

"Well," Mikey said after he stopped rubbing her belly, "I was talking about her owner too." He knee-walked over to Frank and, carefully placing his hands on one of Frank's armrests, leaned over and kissed him. "Hi."

Frank licked his lips, inwardly pleased when Mikey followed the movement with his gaze. "Hello."

Tired of being ignored, Peppers snorted with apparent indignation and padded over to her doggy bed. Frank shook his head, giggling at his dog. "I don't think she--mphhh!" Mikey moved fast (not that Frank minded), kissing him hard.

Suddenly, Frank wasn't hungry anymore.

He responded ardently to the slide of Mikey's tongue against his (how could he not?)--even as he fought against the surge of anxiety at doing anything that involved being naked with Mikey. Frank put a hand on Mikey's chest and gently pushed him away. "Are you, um, are you OK with whatever happens? I mean, I--"

"I'm cool with anything," Mikey said, taking his glasses off and putting them in one of his hoodie's pockets. He looked more than a little dazed.

"It's not that I don't want to. I really, really do. But, um, I don't know if…" Frank swallowed. "If you'd be _that_ 'cool' with the sex stuff."

Mikey sat back on his heels and looked at the floor for a couple of seconds. "OK, OK." He nodded, and then turned his gaze back to Frank. "So what's on the menu? I mean, I can--I can touch you, yeah?" He straightened up and took a hold of Frank's hands, turning them over. "And, like, I guess there are no-touch zones, but there are also really-good touch zones too. Am I right?"

"Um," was all Frank was able to say when Mikey ran the tips of his fingers from Frank's hands up to his forearms and back. The touch was very light at first, becoming intense by third time Mikey had finished a loop over some of Frank's forearm tattoos. It was a fantastic distraction. Frank shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it from the steady chant of _wantwantwant_ in his mind. Clearly, Mikey's plan was to kill him with sexy thoughts.

"Bet you taste awesome," Mikey said, taking one of Frank's hands and kissing the knuckle tattoos on his forefinger and ring finger and following that by sucking them all the way to second knuckle.

"Fff-ffuck!"

"We could, you know, see about the menu?" Mikey purred once he took Frank's fingers out of his mouth.

"Good idea," Frank said once he was able to form any kind of coherent thought. He rolled back to give Mikey enough space to stand up, then turned around. "My bedroom's over here," he said, feeling a lot turned-on, a little freaked out and very grateful that he had changed his bed sheets. He backed up and turned, a tiny smile on his lips when he heard Mikey's steps behind him.

Mikey glanced around Frank's bedroom for a moment. He walked over to Frank, bent at the waist and kissed him. "So, what do you have in mind?" he said after he stood up again.

Frank took in Mikey's pose, the heat in his gaze, daring Frank to break him apart, wanting it. He returned Mikey's look, letting him know that he had received the message loud and clear. "All you have to do," he said, putting his hands on Mikey's hips and pulling him forward, "is to keep looking pretty. Think you can do that?"

He waited until Mikey opened his mouth to answer and slid a hand over Mikey's cock, cupping it, enjoying the way it felt through the thin denim. "This is for me?"

Mikey huffed. "Yes. Told-told you I was going to bring in dessert."

"That you did," Frank said in a low tone, running his hands up to the belt buckle and tugging it open. Hands gripping the front pockets of Mikey's jeans, he pushed Mikey back, letting Mikey go and watching him fall on the bed. "I think I'm going like this better."

Taking a hold of one of Mikey's pant legs, Frank pulled it toward him at the same time Mikey undid his pants and pushed them down, stopping a moment to take off his socks and sneakers.

Soon, Mikey laid spread legged and naked. Frank took off his sweater, tossing it aside and rolled up to the edge of the bed. "Come here," he said, openly staring at the way Mikey's semi-hard cock leaned slightly to the left, the tuft of light brown hair at the base of it and the dark pink sac nestled down below. "So pretty," Frank said as he bent over and stretched his tongue out, flicking the very tip against the underside of Mikey's cockhead a few times, pleased with the way Mikey's hips began to rise and fall. A droplet of pre-come rolled down and met Frank's tongue.

Mikey scooted over and put his legs on Frank's shoulders, giving Frank more access to his cock.

 _This is bliss_ , Frank thought as he grabbed Mikey's bony hips and slowly swallowed Mikey's cock down to the root. He waited a full second, enjoying the way Mikey filled his mouth and then pulled back, pausing to wink at Mikey before going down again. Having never had a gag reflex, deep-throating Mikey was easy. The hard part was remembering to time his bobbing with his breaths.

"Fuck. Yes, let me fuck your face," Mikey said, his hips moving almost-but-not-quite in tandem with Frank's sucking.

Frank hmmed his agreement, hardening his grip on Mikey's hips. Hopefully, the added pressure would distract Mikey long enough so that Frank could enjoy sucking his cock for just a little bit longer.

"God, you're--going to k-kill me," Mikey said in between breaths. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't fucking stop."

Eyes closed and neck straining, Frank let himself enjoy how easily Mikey's cock slid in and out of his mouth. He loved the loud slurping sounds he made with his sucking, his grip becoming slippery because of the sweat building up on Mikey's skin, the pressure of Mikey's heels on Frank's back.

Up above him, Mikey kept a steady string of curse words, each one growing more inventive than the last one.

Much as Frank'd have wanted to keep going for a while, Mikey approached his climax quickly enough; signaling Frank by a series of quick thrusts. "Yeah. Your fucking mouth..."

Frank kept on sucking as Mikey came, swallowing as much of his come as he could.

"Dude!" Mikey said, pushing away from Frank's mouth. "I'm good. I'm good. Yeah."

"You taste delicious," Frank said, wiping a drop of the pearly-white bitter saltiness from the corner of his mouth with his thumb and licking it clean.

"Better than Tony's gelato?" Mikey asked, still sprawled on the bed.

"Better than Tony himself, motherfucker," Frank said before sticking his tongue out.

Mikey sat up, resting on his elbows and frowned at Frank. "Tony is, like, 78 years old, Frank."

"Maybe I'm in the market for a sugar daddy," Frank said, barely able to contain his giggles. "You never know. Scoot over, I'm coming up." He took off his pants and transferred to his bed with ease, feeling more than a little proud to have rendered Mikey semi-conscious via a blowjob.

Mikey grumbled as he moved to the other side of the bed. "Remind me never to buy gelato from Tony's then," he said, pouting as he settled down.

"Huh. I would've never pegged you for the jealous type, Mikeyway," Frank said, smiling.

"Yeah, well, I didn't know I'd have to compete against an old dude," Mikey said and slid an arm under Frank's shoulders, pulling him in.

Frank laughed openly. "You're one of a kind. Plus, I can't wait to see what you're going to do to me."

"As long as you keep that in mind, we'll be cool," Mikey said, brushing his bangs away from his face. "Cuddles are awesome," he said, yawning.

"That they are," Frank replied. He nuzzled Mikey's neck for a couple of beats before closing his eyes.

"For the record, I'm going to take a quick nap and then pounce on you when I'm rested," Mikey announced, curling against Frank and placing a kiss on top of his head.

"I'll be ready when you are," Frank answered, enjoying the soft scratch of Mikey's fingertips on his skin as he began to doze off. They could always have veggie lasagna for breakfast.

THE END

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for "All the Broken Pieces (Keep Cool, Stay Tough)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11630760) by [akamine_chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan)




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